

























































* 


















































































THE WHEELS OF CHANCE 





Copyright, 1896, 

By MACMILLAN AND CO. 



Nortoooti $ress 

J. S. Cushing & Co. — Berwick & Smith 
Norwood Mass. U.S.A. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The Principal Character in the Story i 

/ 

The Riding Forth of Mr. Hoopdriver . . .14 

The Shameful Episode of the Young Lady in Grey 24 

On the Road to Ripley ,34 

How Mr. Hoopdriver was Haunted .... 49 

The Imaginings of Mr. Hoopdriver’s Heart . . 57 

Omissions 63 

The Dreams of Mr. Hoopdriver .... 66 

How Mr. Hoopdriver went to Haslemere . . 70 

How Mr. Hoopdriver reached Midhurst . . 78 

An Interlude 84 

Of the Artificial in Man, and of the Zeitgeist 90 

The Encounter at MIdhurst 94 

The Pursuit no 

At Bognor 1 17 


v 


VI 


Contents 


PAGE 

The Moonlight Ride 136 

The Surbiton Interlude 145 

The Awakening of Mr. Hoopdriver . . 155 

The Departure from Chichester . . . .161 

The Unexpected Anecdote of the Lion . . . 172 

The Rescue Expedition 181 

The Abasement of Mr. Hoopdriver .... 203 

In the New Forest . 225 

At the Rufus Stone 240 


The Envoy 


257 


THE WHEELS OF CHANCE 


THE PRINCIPAL CHARACTER IN THE 
STORY 

I 

If you (presuming you are of the sex that does 
such things) — if you had gone into the Drapery 
Emporium — which is really only magnificent for 
shop — of Messrs. Antrobus & Co. — a perfectly 
fictitious “ Co.,” by the bye — of Putney, on the 
14th of August, 1895, had turned to the right-hand 
side, where the blocks of white linen and piles of 
blankets rise up to the rail from which the pink 
and blue prints depend, you might have been served 
by the central figure of this story that is now begin- 
ning. He would have come forward, bowing and 
swaying, he would have extended two hands with 
largish knuckles and enormous cuffs over the counter, 
and he would have asked you, protruding a pointed 
chin and without the slightest anticipation of pleasure 


2 


The Wheels of Chance 


in his manner, what he might have the pleasure oi 
showing you. Under certain circumstances — as, for 
instance, hats, baby linen, gloves, silks, lace, or cur- 
tains — he would simply have bowed politely, and with 
a drooping expression, and making a kind of circular 
sweep, invited you to “ step this way,” and so led 
you beyond his ken ; but under other and happier 
conditions, — huckaback, blankets, dimity, cretonne, 
linen, calico, are cases in point, — he would have 
requested you to take a seat, emphasising the hos- 
pitality by leaning over the counter and gripping a 
chair back in a spasmodic manner, and so pro- 
ceeded to obtain, unfold, and exhibit his goods for 
your consideration. Under which happier circum- 
stances you might — if of an observing turn of mind 
and not too much of a housewife to be inhuman — 
have given the central figure of this story less cursory 
attention. 

Now if you had noticed anything about him, it 
would have been chiefly to notice how little he was 
noticeable. He wore the black morning coat, the 
black tie, and the speckled grey nether parts (de- 
scending into shadow and mystery below the counter) 
of his craft. He was of a pallid complexion, hair of 
a kind of dirty fairness, greyish eyes, and a skinny 
immature moustache under his peaked indeterminate 
nose. His features were all small, but none ill-shaped. 


The Wheels of Chance 


3 


A rosette of pins decorated the lappel of his coat. 
His remarks, you would observe, were entirely what 
people used to call cliche , formulae not organic to the 
occasion, but stereotyped ages ago and learnt years 
since by heart. “ This, madam,” he would say, “ is 
selling very well.” “ We are doing a very good article 
at four three a yard.” “We could show you some- 
thing better, of course.” “ No trouble, madam, I as- 
sure you.” Such were the simple counters of his 
intercourse. So, I say, he would have presented him- 
self to your superficial observation. He would have 
danced about behind the counter, have neatly refolded 
the goods he had shown you, have put on one side 
those you selected, extracted a little book with a car- 
bon leaf and a tinfoil sheet from a fixture, made you 
out a little bill in that weak flourishing hand peculiar 
to drapers, and have bawled “ Sayn ! ” Then a puffy 
little shop-walker would have come into view, looked 
at the bill for a second, very hard (showing you a part- 
ing down the middle of his head meanwhile), have 
scribbled a still more flourishing J. M. all over the 
document, have asked you if there was nothing more, 
have stood by you — supposing that you were paying 
cash — until the central figure of this story reappeared 
with the change. One glance more at him, and 
the puffy little shop-walker would have been bow- 
ing you out with fountains of civilities at work all 


4 The Wheels of Chance 

about you. And so the interview would have termi- 
nated. 

But real literature, as distinguished from anecdote, 
does not concern itself with superficial appearances 
alone. Literature is revelation. Modern literature is 
indecorous revelation. It is the duty of the earnest 
author to tell you what you would not have seen — 
even at the cost of some blushes. And the thing that 
you would not have seen about this young man, and 
the thing of the greatest moment to this story, the 
thing that must be told if the book is to be written, 
was — let us face it bravely — the Remarkable Condi- 
tion of this Young Man’s Legs. 

Let us approach the business with dispassionate 
explicitness. Let us assume something of the scien- 
tific spirit, the hard, almost professorial tone of the 
conscientious realist. Let us treat this young man’s 
legs as a mere diagram, and indicate the points of 
interest with the unemotional precision of a lecturer’s 
pointer. And so to our revelation. On the internal 
aspect of the right ankle of this young man you would 
have observed, ladies and gentlemen, a contusion and 
an abrasion ; on the internal aspect of the left ankle a 
contusion also ; on its external aspect a large yellow- 
ish bruise. On his left, shin there were two bruises, 
one a leaden yellow graduating here and there into 
purple, and another, obviously of more recent date, of 


The Wheels of Chance 


5 


a blotchy red — tumid and threatening. Proceeding 
up the left le^in a spiral manner, an unnatural hard- 
ness and redness would have been discovered on the 
upper aspect of the calf, and above the knee and on 
the inner side, an extraordinary expanse of bruised 
surface, a kind of closely stippled shading of contused 
points. The right leg would be found to be bruised 
in a marvellous manner all about and under the knee, 
and particularly on the interior aspect of the knee. 
So far we may proceed with our details. Fired by 
these discoveries, an investigator might perhaps have 
pursued his inquiries further — to bruises on the 
shoulders, elbows, and even the finger joints, of the 
central figure of our story. He had indeed been 
bumped and battered at an extraordinary number of 
points. But enough of realistic description is as good 
as a feast, and we have exhibited enough for our pur" 
pose. Even in literature one must know where to 
draw the line. 

Now the reader may be inclined to wonder how 
a respectable young shopman should have got his legs, 
and indeed himself generally, into such a dreadful 
condition. One might fancy that he had been sitting 
with his nether extremities in some complicated ma- 
chinery, a threshing-machine, say, or one of those 
hay-making furies. But Sherlock Holmes (now 
happily dead) would have fancied nothing of the 


6 


The Wheels of Chance 


kind. He would have recognised at once that the 
bruises on the internal aspect of the^left leg, con- 
sidered in the light of the distribution of the other 
abrasions and contusions, pointed unmistakably to 
the violent impact of the Mounting Beginner upon 
the bicycling saddle, and that the ruinous state of 
the right knee was equally eloquent of the con- 
cussions attendant on that person’s hasty, frequently 
causeless, and invariably ill-conceived descents. One 
large bruise on the shin is even more characteristic 
of the, prentice cyclist, for upon every one of them 
waits the jest of the unexpected treadle. You try at 
least to walk your machine in an easy manner, and 
whack ! — you are rubbing your shin. So out of 
innocence we ripen. Two bruises on that place 
mark a certain want of aptitude in learning, such as 
one might expect in a person unused to muscular 
exercise. Blisters on the hands are eloquent of 
the nervous clutch of the wavering rider. And so 
forth. Until Sherlock is presently explaining by, the 
help of the minor injuries, that the machine ridden 
is an old-fashioned affair with a fork instead of the 
diamond frame, a cushioned tire, well worn on the 
hind wheel, and a gross weight all on of perhaps 
three-and-forty pounds. 

The revelation is made. Behind the decorous 
figure of the attentive shopman that I had the honour 


The Wheels of Chance 


7 


of showing you at first, rises a vision of a nightly 
struggle, of two dark figures and a machine in a 
dark road, — the road, to be explicit, from Roe- 
hampton to Putney Hill, — and with this vision is 
the sound of a heel spurning the gravel, a gasping 
and grunting, a shouting of “ Steer, man, steer ! ” a. 
wavering unsteady flight, a spasmodic turning of the 
missile edifice of man and machine, and a collapse. 
Then you descry dimly through the dusk the central 
figure of this story sitting by the roadside and rub- 
bing his leg at some new place, and his friend, sym- 
pathetic (but by no means depressed), repairing the 
displacement of the handle-bar. 

Thus even in a shop assisstant does the warmth of 
manhood assert itself, and drive him against all the 
conditions of his calling, against the counsels of 
prudence and the restrictions of his means, to seek 
the wholesome delights of exertion and danger and 
pain. And our first examination of the draper re- 
veals beneath his draperies — the man ! To which 
initial fact (among others) we shall come again in 


II 

But enough of these revelations. The central fig- 
ure of our story is now going along behind the coun- 
ter, a draper indeed, with your purchases in his arms, 
to the warehouse, where the various articles you have 
selected will presently be packed by the senior porter 
and sent to you. Returning thence to his particular 
place, he lays hands on a folded piece of gingham, 
and gripping the corners of the folds in his hands, 
begins to straighten them punctiliously. Near him is 
an apprentice, apprenticed to the same high calling 
of draper’s assistant, a ruddy, red-haired lad in a very 
short tailless black coat and a very high collar, who is 
deliberately unfolding and refolding some patterns of 
cretonne. By twenty-one he too may hope to be a 
full-blown assistant, even as Mr. Hoopdriver. Prints 
depend from the brass rails above them, behind are 
fixtures full of white packages of Lino , Hd Bk, and 
Mull. You might imagine to see them that the two 
were both intent upon nothing but smoothness of tex- 
tile and rectitude of fold. But to tell the truth, 
neither is thinking of the mechanical duties in hand. 

8 


The Wheels of Chance 


9 


The assistant is dreaming of the delicious tirqe — only 
four hours off now — when he will resume the tale of 
his bruises and abrasions. The apprentice is nearer 
the long long thoughts of boyhood, and his imagina- 
tion rides cap-a-pie through the chambers of his brain, 
seeking some knightly quest in honour of that Fair 
Lady, the last but one of the girl apprentices to the 
dress-making upstairs. He inclines rather to street 
fighting against revolutionaries — because then she 
could see him from the window. 

Jerking them back to the present comes the puffy 
little shop-walker, with a paper in his hand. The 
apprentice becomes extremely active. The shop- 
walker eyes the goods in hand. “ Hoopdriver,” he 
says, “ how’s that line of g-sez-x ginghams?” 

Hoopdriver returns from an imaginary triumph 
over the uncertainties of dismounting. “They’re 
going fairly well, sir. But the larger checks seem 
hanging.” 

The shop-walker brings up parallel to the counter. 
“Any particular time when you want your holidays?” 
he asks. 

Hoopdriver pulls at his skimpy moustache. “ No 
— Don’t want them too late, sir, of course.” 

“ How about this day week ? ” 

Hoopdriver becomes rigidly meditative, gripping 
the corners of the gingham folds in his hands. His 


10 The Wheels of Chance 

face is eloquent of conflicting considerations. Can he 
learn it in a week? That’s the question. Otherwise 
Briggs will get next week, and he will have to wait 
until September — when the weather is often uncer- 
tain. He is naturally of a sanguine disposition. All 
drapers have to be, or else they could never have the 
faith they show in the beauty, washability, and unfad- 
ing excellence of the goods they sell you. The decis- 
ion comes at last. “That’ll do me very well,” said 
Mr. Hoopdriver, terminating the pause. The die is 
cast. 

The shop-walker makes a note of it and goes on to 
Briggs in the “dresses,” the next in the strict scale of 
precedence of the Drapery Emporium. Mr. Hoop- 
driver in alternating spasms anon straightens his ging- 
ham and anon becomes meditative, with his tongue in 
the hollow of his decaying wisdom tooth. 


Ill 


At supper that night, holiday talk held undisputed 
sway. Mr. Pritchard spoke of ‘ Scotland,’ Miss Isaacs 
clamoured of Bettws-y-Coed, Mr. Judson displayed a 
proprietary interest in the Norfolk Broads. “ I ? ” 
said Hoopdriver when the question came to him. 
“ Why, cycling, of course.” 

“ You’re never going to ride that dreadful machine 
of yours, day after day?” said Miss Howe of the Cos- 
tume Department. 

“ I am,” said Hoopdriver as calmly as possible, pull- 
ing at the insufficient moustache. “ I’m going for a 
Cycling Tour. Along the South Coast.” 

“ Well, all I hope, Mr. Hoopdriver, is that you’ll 
get fine weather,” said Miss Howe. “ And not come 
any nasty croppers.” 

“ And done forget some tinscher of arnica in yer 
bag,” said the junior apprentice in the very high col- 
lar. (He had witnessed one of the lessons at the top 
of Putney Hill.) 

“ You stow it,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, looking hard 
and threateningly at the junior apprentice, and sud- 


ii 


12 The Wheels of Chance 

denly adding in a tone of bitter contempt,” — 
Jampot.” 

“ I’m getting fairly safe upon it now,” he told Miss 
Howe. 

At other times Hoopdriver might have further re- 
sented the satirical efforts of the apprentice, but his 
mind was too full of the projected Tour to admit any 
petty delicacies of dignity. He left the supper table 
early, so that he might put in a good hour at the des- 
perate gymnastics up the Roehampton Road before it 
would be time to come back for locking up. When 
the gas was turned off for the night he was sitting on 
the edge of his bed, rubbing arnica into his knee — a 
new and very big place — and studying a Road Map of 
the South of England. Briggs of the “ dresses,” who 
shared the room with him, was sitting up in bed and 
trying to smoke in the dark. Briggs had never been 
on a cycle in his life, but he felt Hoopdriver’s inex- 
perience and offered such advice as occurred to him. 

“ Have the machine thoroughly well oiled,” said 
Briggs, “ carry one or two lemons with you, don’t tear 
yourself to death the first day, and sit upright. Never 
lose control of the machine, and always sound the bell 
on every possible opportunity. You mind those things, 
and nothing very much can’t happen to you, Hoop- 
driver, — you take my word.” 

He would lapse into silence for a minute, save per- 


The Wheels of Chance 


13 


haps for a curse or so at his pipe, and then break out 
with an entirely different set of tips. 

“ Avoid running over dogs, Hoopdriver, whatever 
you do. It’s one of the worst things you can do to 
run over a dog. Never let the machine buckle — 
there was a man killed only the other day through his 
wheel buckling — don’t scotch, don’t ride on the 
foot-path, keep your own side of the road, and 
if you see a tram-line, go round the corner at once, and 
hurry off into the next county — and always light 
up before dark. You mind just a few little things like 
that, Hoopriver, and nothing much can’t happen to 
you — you take my word.” 

“ Right you are !” said Hoopdriver. “ Good-night, 
old man.” 

“ Good-night,” said Briggs, and there was silence 
for a space, save for the succulent respiration of the 
pipe. Hoopdriver rode off into Dreamland on his 
machine, and was scarcely there before he was pitched 
back into the world of sense again. — Something — 
what was it? 

“Never oil the steering. It’s fatal,” a voice that 
came from round a fitful glow of light, was saying. 
“ And clean the chain daily with black-lead. You 
mind just a few little things like that — 

“ Lord love us ! ” said Hoopdriver, and pulled the 
bedclothes over his ears. 


THE RIDING FORTH OF MR. HOOPDRIVER 


IV 

Only those who toil six long days out of the seven, 
and all the year round, save for one brief glorious 
fortnight or ten days in the summer time, know the 
exquisite sensations of the First Holiday Morning. 
All the dreary, uninteresting routine drops frdm you 
suddenly, your chains fall about your feet. All at 
once you are Lord of yourself, Lord of every hour in 
the long, vacant day; you may go where you please, 
call none Sir or Madame, have a lappel free of pins, 
doff your black morning coat, and wear the colour of 
your heart, and be a Man. You grudge sleep, you 
grudge eating, and drinking even, their intrusion on 
those exquisite moments. There will be no more 
rising before breakfast in casual old clothing, to go 
dusting and getting ready in a cheerless, shutter- 
darkened, wrappered-up shop, no more imperious 
cries of, “Forward, Hoopdriver,” no more hasty 
meals, and weary attendance on fitful old women, 
for ten blessed days. The first morning is by far 


The Wheels of Chance 15 

the most glorious, for you hold your whole fortune 
in your hands. Thereafter, every night, comes a 
pang, a spectre, that will not be exorcised — the 
promonition of the return. The shadow of going 
back, of being put in the cage again for another 
twelve months, lies blacker and blacker across the 
sunlight. But on the first morning of the ten the 
holiday has no past, and ten days seems as good as 
infinity. 

And it was fine, full of a promise of glorious days, 
a deep blue sky with dazzling piles of white cloud 
here and there, as though celestial haymakers bad 
been piling the swathes of last night’s clouds into 
cocks for a coming cartage. There were thrushes in 
the Richmond Road, and a lark on Putney Heath. 
The freshness of dew was in the air; dew or the relics 
of an overnight shower glittered on the leaves and 
grass. Hoopdriver had breakfasted early by Mrs. 
Gunn’s complaisance. He wheeled his machine up 
Putney Hill, and his heart sang within him. Half- 
way up, a dissipated-looking black cat rushed home 
across the road and vanished under a gate. All the 
big red-brick houses behind the variegated shrubs 
and trees had their blinds down still, and he would 
not have changed places with a soul in any one of 
them for a hundred pounds. 

He had on his new brown cycling suit — a hand- 


1 6 The Wheels of Chance 

some Norfolk jacket thing for 30/ — and his legs — 
those martyr legs — were more than consoled by thick 
chequered stockings, “thin in the foot, thick in the 
leg,” for all they had endured. A neat packet of 
American cloth behind the saddle contained his 
change of raiment, and the bell and the handle-bar 
and the hubs and lamp, albeit a trifle freckled by 
wear, glittered blindingly in the rising sunlight. And 
at the top of the hill, after only one unsuccessful 
attempt, which, somehow, terminated on the green, 
Hoopdriver mounted, and with a stately and cautious 
restraint in his pace, and a dignified curvature of 
path, began his great Cycling Tour along the South- 
ern Coast. 

There is only one phrase to describe his course at 
this stage, and that is — voluptuous curves. He did 
not ride fast, he did not ride straight, an exacting 
critic might say he did not ride well — but he rode 
generously, opulently, using the whole road and even 
nibbling at the footpath. The excitement never 
flagged. So far he had never passed or been passed 
by anything, but as yet the day was young and the 
road was clear. He doubted his steering so much 
that, for the present, he had resolved to dismount at 
the approach of anything else upon wheels. The 
shadows of the trees lay very long and blue across 
the road, the morning sunlight was like amber fire. 


I he Wheels of Chance 


17 


At the cross-roads at the top of West Hill, where the 
cattle trough stands, he turned towards Kingston and 
set himself to scale the little bit of ascent. An early 
heath-keeper, in his velveteen jacket, marvelled at 
his efforts. And while he yet struggled the head of 
a carter rose over the brow. 

At the sight of him Mr. Hoopdriver, according to 
his previous determination, resolved to dismount. 
He tightened the brake, and the machine stopped 
dead. He was trying to think what he did with his 
right leg whilst getting off. He gripped the handles 
and released the brake, standing on the left pedal 
and waving his right foot in the air. Then — these 
things take so long in the telling — he found the 
machine was falling over to the right. While he was 
deciding upon a plan of action, gravitation appears 
to have been busy. He was still irresolute when he 
found the machine on the ground, himself kneeling 
upon it, and a vague feeling in his mind that again 
Providence had dealt harshly with his shin. This 
happened when he was just level with the heath- 
keeper. The man in the approaching cart stood up 
to see the ruins better. 

“ That ain’t the way to get off,” said the heath- 
keeper. 

Mr. Hoopdriver picked up the machine. The 
handle was twisted askew again. He said something 

c 


1 8 The Wheels of Chance 

under his breath. He would have to unscrew the 
beastly thing. 

“ That ain’t the way to get off,” repeated the heath- 
keeper, after a silence. 

“/know that,” said Mr, Hoopdriver, testily, deter- 
mined to overlook the new specimen on his shin at 
any cost. He unbuckled the wallet behind the sad- 
dle, to get out a screw hammer. 

“If you know it ain’t the way to get off — 
whaddyer do it for? said the heath-keeper, in a tone 
of friendly controversy. 

Mr. Hoopdriver got out his screw hammer and 
went to the handle. He was annoyed. “That’s my 
business, I suppose,” he said, fumbling with the 
screw. The unusual exertion had made his hands 
shake frightfully. 

The heath-keeper became meditative, and twisted 
his stick in his hands behind his back. “You’ve 
broken yer ’andle, ain’t yer?” he said, presently. 
Just then the screw hammer slipped off the nut. Mr. 
Hoopdriver used a nasty, low word. 

“They’re trying things, them bicycles,” said 
the heath-keeper, charitably. “Very trying.” Mr. 
Hoopdriver gave the nut a vicious turn and sud- 
denly stood up — he was holding the front wheel 
between his knees. “I wish,” said he, with a catch 
in his voice, “I wish you’d leave off staring at me.” 


The Wheels of Chance 


19 


Then with the air of one who has delivered an ulti- 
matum, he began replacing the screw hammer in the 
wallet. 

The heath-keeper never moved. Possibly he 
raised his eyebrows, and certainly he stared harder 
than he did before. “You’re pretty unsociable,” he 
said, slowly, as Mr. Hoopdriver seized the handles and 
stood ready to mount as soon as the cart had passed. 

The indignation gathered slowly but surely. “ Why 
don’t you ride on a private road of your own if no 
one ain’t to speak to you?” asked the heath-keeper, 
perceiving more and more clearly the bearing of the 
matter. “Can’t no one make a passin’ remark to 
you, Touchy? Ain’t I good enough to speak to you? 
Been struck wooden all of a sudden? ” 

Mr. Hoopdriver stared into the Immensity of the 
Future. He was rigid with emotion. It was like 
abusing the Lions in Trafalgar Square. But the heath- 
keeper felt his honour was at stake. 

“Don’t you make no remarks to 'imf said the 
keeper as the carter came up broadside to them. 
“’E’s a bloomin’ dook, ’e is. ’E don’t converse 
with no one under a earl. ’E’s off to Windsor, ’e is; 
that’s why ’e’s stickin’ his be’ind out so haughty. 
Pride! Why, ’e’s got so much of it, ’e has to carry 
some of it in that there bundle there, for fear ’e’d 
bust if 7 e didn’t ease hisself a bit — 'E — ” 


20 


The Wheels of Chance 


But Mr. Hoopdriver heard no more. He was 
hopping vigorously along the road, in a spasmodic 
attempt to remount. He missed the treadle once 
and swore viciously, to the keeper’s immense delight. 
“Nar! Nar!” said the heath-keeper. 

In another moment Mr. Hoopdriver was up, and 
after one terrific lurch of the machine, the heath- 
keeper dropped out of earshot. 

Mr. Hoopdriver would have liked to look back at 
his enemy, but he usually twisted round and upset if 
he tried that. He had to imagine the indignant 
heath-kepeer telling the carter all about it. He tried 
to infuse as much disdain as possible into his retreat- 
ing aspect. 

He drove on his sinuous way down the dip by the 
new mere and up the little rise to the crest of the hill 
that drops into Kingston Vale; and so remarkable 
is the psychology of cycling, that he rode all the 
straighter and easier because the emotions the heath- 
keeper had aroused relieved his mind of the constant 
expectation of collapse that had previously unnerved 
him. To ride a bicycle properly is very like a love 
affair ; chiefly it is a matter of faith. Believe you do 
it, and the thing is done; doubt, and, for the life of 
you, you cannot. 

Now you may perhaps imagine that as he rode on, 
his feelings towards the heath-keeper were either 


The Wheels of Chance 21 

vindictive or remorseful, — vindictive for the aggrava- 
tion or remorseful for his own injudicious display of 
ill temper. As a matter of fact, they were nothing 
of the sort. A sudden, a wonderful gratitude, pos- 
sessed him. The Glory of the Holidays had resumed 
its sway with a sudden accession of splendour. At 
the crest of the hill he put his feet upon the foot- 
rests, and now riding moderately straight, went, with 
a palpitating brake, down that excellent descent. A 
new delight was in his eyes, quite over and above the 
pleasure of rushing through the keen, sweet, morning 
air. He reached out his thumb and twanged his bell 
out of sheer happiness. 

“ ‘He’s a bloomin’ Dook — he is! ’ ” said Mr. Hoop- 
driver to himself, in a soft undertone, as he went 
soaring down the hill, and again, ‘“He’s a bloomin’ 
Dook ! ’ ” He opened his mouth in a silent laugh. 
It was having a decent cut did it. His social supe- 
riority had been so evident that even a man like that 
noticed it. No more Manchester Department for 
ten days ! Out of Manchester, a Man. The draper 
Hoopdriver, the Mand, had vanished from existence. 
Instead was a gentleman, a man of pleasure, with a 
five-pound note, two sovereigns, and some silver at 
various convenient points of his person. At any rate 
as good as a Dook, if not precisely in the peerage. 
Involuntarily at the thought of his funds Hoopdriver ’s 


22 


The Wheels of Chance 


right hand left the handle and sought his breast pocket, 
to be immediately recalled by a violent swoop of the 
machine towards the cemetery. Whirroo ! Just 
missed that half brick! Mischievous brutes there 
were in the world to put such a thing in the road. 
Some blooming ’Arry or other ! Ought to prosecute 
a few of these roughs, and the rest would know bet- 
ter. That must be the buckle of the wallet was rat- 
tling on the mud-guard. How cheerfully the wheels 
buzzed ! 

The cemetery was very silent and peaceful, but the 
Vale was waking, and windows rattled and squeaked 
up, and a white dog came out of one of the houses 
and yelped at him. He got off, rather breathless, at 
the foot of Kingston Hill, and pushed up. Half- 
way up, an early milk chariot rattled by him ; two 
dirty men with bundles came hurrying down. Hoop- 
driver felt sure they were burglars, carrying home the 
swag. 

It was up Kingston Hill that he first noticed a 
peculiar feeling, a slight tightness at his knees; but 
he noticed, too, at the top that he rode straighter 
than he did before. The pleasure of riding straight 
blotted out these first intimations of fatigue. A man 
on horseback appeared ; Hoopdriver, in a tumult of 
soul at his own temerity, passed him. Then down 
the hill into Kingston with the screw hammer, behind 


The Wheels of Chance 


23 


in the wallet, rattling against the oil can. He passed, 
without misadventure, a fruiterer’s van and a sluggish 
cartload of bricks. And in Kingston Hoopdriver, 
with the most exquisite sensations, saw the shutters 
half removed from a draper’s shop, and two yawning 
youths, in dusty old black jackets and with dirty 
white comforters about their necks, clearing up the 
planks and boxes and wrappers in the window, pre- 
paratory to dressing it out. Even so had Hoopdriver 
been on the previous day. But now, was he not a 
bloomin’ Dook, palpably in the sight of common 
men? Then round the corner to the right — bell 
banged furiously — and so along the road to Surbiton. 

Whoop for Freedom and Adventure ! Every now 
and then a house with an expression of sleepy sur- 
prise would open its eye as he passed, and to the 
right of him for a mile or so the weltering Thames 
flashed and glittered. Talk of your joie de vivrel 
Albeit with a certain cramping sensation about the 
knees and calves slowly forcing itself upon his 
attention. 


THE SHAMEFUL EPISODE OF THE YOUNG 
LADY IN GREY 


V 

Now you must understand that Mr. Hoopdriver 
was not one of your fast young men. If he had been 
King Lemuel, he could not have profited more by his 
mother’s instructions. He regarded the feminine 
sex as something to bow to and smirk at from a safe 
distance. Years of the intimate remoteness of a 
counter leave their mark upon a man. It was an 
adventure for him to take one of the Young Ladies 
of the Establishment to church on a Sunday. Few 
modern young men could have merited less the 
epithet “ Dorg.” But I have thought at times that 
his machine may have had something of the blade in 
its metal. Decidedly it was a machine with a past. 
Mr. Hoopdriver had bought it second-hand from 
Hare’s in Putney, and Hare said it had had several 
owners. Second-hand was scarcely the word for it, 
and Hare was mildly puzzled that he should be sell- 
ing such an antiquity. He said it was perfectly 

24 


The Wheels of Chance 


25 


sound, if a little old-fashioned, but he was absolutely 
silent about its moral character. It may even have 
begun its career with a poet, say in his glorious 
youth. It may have been the bicycle of a Really 
Bad Man. No one who nad ever ridden a cycle of 
any kind but will witness that the things are unac- 
countably prone to pick up bad habits — and keep 
them. 

It is undeniable that it became convulsed with the 
most violent emotions directly the Young Lady in 
grey appeared. It began an absolutely unprece- 
dented Wabble — unprecedented so far as Hoop- 
driver’s experience went. It “showed off” — the 
most decadent sinuosity. It left a track like one of 
Beardsley’s feathers. He suddenly realised, too, 
that his cap was loose on his head and his breath a 
mere remnant. 

The Young Lady in Grey was also riding a bicycle. 
She was dressed in a beautiful bluish-grey, and the 
sun behind her drew her outline in gold and left the 
rest in shadow. Hoopdriver was dimly aware that 
she was young, rather slender, dark, and with a bright 
colour and bright eyes. Strange doubts possessed 
him as to the nature of her nether costume. He had 
heard of such things of course. Her handles glit- 
tered; a jet of sunlight splashed off her bell blind- 
ingly. She was approaching the high road along 


2 6 The Wheels of Chance 

an affluent from the villas of Surbiton. The roads 
converged slantingly. She was travelling at about 
the same pace as Mr. Hoopdriver. The appearances 
pointed to a meeting at the fork of the roads. 

Hoopdriver was seized with a horrible conflict of 
doubts. By contrast with her he rode disgracefully. 
Had he not better get off at once and pretend some- 
thing was wrong with his treadle? Yet even the end 
of getting off was an uncertainty. That last occa- 
sion on Putney Heath! On the other hand, what 
would happen if he kept on? To go very slow 
seemed the abnegation of his manhood. To crawl 
after a mere schoolgirl ! Besides, she was not riding 
very fast. On the other hand, to thrust himself in 
front of her, consuming the road in his tendril-like 
advance, seemed an incivility — greed. He would 
leave her such a very little. His business training 
made him prone to bow and step aside. If only one 
could take one’s hands off the handles, one might 
pass with a silent elevation of the hat, of course. But 
even that was a little suggestive of a funeral. 

Meanwhile the roads converged. She was looking 
at him. She was flushed, a little thin, and had very 
bright eyes. Her red lips fell apart. She may have 
been riding hard, but it looked uncommonly like a 
faint smile. And the things were — yes ! — rationals ! 
Suddenly an impulse to bolt from ' the situation 


The Wheels of Chance 27 

■became clamorous. Mr. Hoopdriver pedalled con- 
vulsively, intending to pass her. He jerked against 
some tin thing on the road, and it flew up between 
front wheel and mud -guard. He twisted round 
towards her. Had the machine a devil? 

At that supreme moment it came across him that 
he would have done wiser to dismount. He gave a 
frantic “whoop ” and tried to get round, then, as he 
seemed falling over, he pulled the handles straight 
again and to the left by a instinctive motion, and 
shot behind her hind wheel, missing her by a hair’s 
breadth. The pavement kerb awaited him. He 
tried to recover, and found himself jumped up on 
the pavement and riding squarely at a neat wooden 
paling. He struck this with a terrific impact and 
shot forward off his saddle into a clumsy entangle- 
ment. Then he began to tumble over sideways, and 
completed the entire figure in a sitting position on 
the gravel, with his feet between the fork and the 
stay of the machine. The concussion on the gravel 
shook his entire being. He remained in that posi- 
tion, wishing that he had broken his neck, wishing 
even more heartily that he had never been born. 
The glory of life had departed. Bloomin’ Dook, 
indeed ! These unwomanly women ! 

There was a soft whirr, the click of a brake, two 
footfalls, and the Young Lady in Grey stood holding 


28 


The Wheels of Chance 


her machine. She had turned round and come back 
to him. The warm sunlight now was in her face. 
“Are you hurt? ” she said. She had a pretty, clear, 
girlish voice. She was really very young — quite a 
girl, in fact. And rode so well ! It was a bitter 
draught. 

Mr. Hoopdriver stood up at once. “Not a bit,” 
he said, a little ruefully. He became painfully aware 
that large patches of gravel scarcely improve the 
appearance of a Norfolk suit. “I’m very sorry 
indeed — ” 

“It’s my fault,” she said, interrupting and so 
saving him on the very verge of calling her ‘Miss.’ 
(He knew ‘Miss’ was wrong, but it was deep- 
seated habit with him.) “ I tried to pass you on the 
wrong side.” Her face and eyes seemed all alive. 
“It’s my place to be sorry.” 

“But it was my steering — ” 

“ I ought to have seen you were a Novice ” — with 
a touch of superiority. “ But you rode so straight 
coming along there ! ” 

She really was — dashed pretty. Mr. Hoopdriver’ s 
feelings passed the nadir. When he spoke again 
there was the faintest flavour of the aristocratic in 
his voice. 

“It’s my first ride, as a matter of fact. But that’s 
no excuse for my blundering — ” 


The Wheels of Chance 


29 


“Your finger’s bleeding,” she said, abruptly. 

He saw his knuckle was barked. “ I didn’t feel 
it,” he said, feeling manly. 

“You don’t at first. Have you any sticking- 
plaster? If not — ” She balanced her machine 
against herself. She had a little side pocket, and 
she whipped out a small packet of sticking-plaster 
with a pair of scissors in a sheath at the side, and 
cut off a generous portion. He had a wild impulse 
to ask her to stick it on for him. Controlled. “Thank 
you,” he said. 

“ Machine all right? ” she asked, looking past him 
at the prostrate vehicle, her hands on her handle-bar. 
For the first time Hoopdriver did not feel proud of 
his machine. 

He turned and began to pick up the fallen fabric. 
He looked over his shoulder, and she was gone, turned 
his head over the other shoulder down the road, and 
she was riding off. “ Orf! ” said Mr. Hoopdriver. 
“ Well, I’m blowed ! — Talk about Slap Up ! ” (His 
aristocratic refinement rarely adorned his speech in 
his private soliloquies.) His mind was whirling. 
One fact was clear. A most delightful and novel 
human being had flashed across his horizon and was 
going out of his life again. The Holiday madness 
was in his blood. She looked round ! 

At that he rushed his machine into the road, and 


30 


The Wheels of Chance 


began a hasty ascent. Unsuccessful. Try again. 
Confound it, will he never be able to get up on the 
thing again? She will be round the corner in a 
minute. Once more. Ah! Pedal! Wabble! No! 
Right this time ! He gripped the handles and put 
his head down. He would overtake her. 

The situation was primordial. The Man beneath 
prevailed for a moment over the civilised super- 
structure, the Draper. He pushed at the pedals with 
archaic violence. So Palaeolithic man may have 
ridden his simple bicycle of chipped flint in pursuit 
of his exogamous affinity. She vanished round the 
corner. His effort was Titanic. What should he 
say when he overtook her? That scarcely disturbed 
him at first. How fine she had looked, flushed with 
the exertion of riding, breathing a little fast, but 
elastic and active ! Talk about your ladylike, home- 
keeping girls with complexions like cold veal ! But 
what should he say to her ? That was a bother. And 
he could not lift his cap without risking a repetition 
of his previous ignominy. She was a real Young 
Lady. No mistake about that ! None of your bloom- 
ing shop girls. (There is no greater contempt in the 
world than that of shop men for shop girls, unless it 
be that of shop girls for shop men.) Phew! This 
was work. A certain numbness came and went at 
his knees. 


The Wheels of Chance 


3i 


“May 1 ask to whom I am indebted?” he panted 
to himself, trying it over. That might do. Lucky 
he had a card case ! A hundred a shilling — while 
you wait. He was getting winded. The road was 
certainly a bit uphill. He turned the corner and 
saw a long stretch of road, and a grey dress vanish- 
ing. He set his teeth. Had he gained on her at 
all? “Monkey on a gridiron! ” yelped a small boy. 
Hoopdriver redoubled his efforts. His breath be- 
came audible, his steering unsteady, his pedalling 
positively ferocious. A drop of perspiration ran 
into his eye, irritant as acid. The road really was 
uphill beyond dispute. All his physiology began to 
cry out at him. A last tremendous effort brought 
him to the corner and showed yet another extent of 
shady roadway, empty save for a baker’s van. His 
front wheel suddenly shrieked aloud. “ Oh Lord ! ” 
said Hoopdriver, relaxing. 

Anyhow she was not in sight. He got off un- 
steadily, and for a moment his legs felt like wisps of 
cotton. He balanced his machine against the grassy 
edge of the path and sat down panting. His hands 
were gnarled with swollen veins and shaking palpably, 
his breath came viscid. 

“I’m hardly in training yet,” he remarked. His 
legs had gone leaden. “I don’t feel as though I’d 
had a mouthful of breakfast.” Presently he slapped 


32 


The Wheels of Chance 


his side pocket and produced therefrom a brand-new 
cigarette case and a packet of Vansittart’s Red Her- 
ring cigarettes. He filled the case. Then his eye 
fell with a sudden approval on the ornamental 
chequering of his new stockings. The expression 
in his eyes faded slowly to abstract meditation. 

“Shewdtf a stunning girl,” he said. “I wonder 
if I shall ever set eyes on her again. And she knew 
how to ride, too! Wonder what she thought of me.” 

The phrase ‘bloomin’ Dook’ floated into his mind 
with a certain flavour of comfort. 

He lit a cigarette, and sat smoking and medi- 
tating. He did not even look up when vehicles 
passed. It was perhaps ten minutes before he roused 
himself. “What rot it is! What’s the good of 
thinking such things,” he said. “I’m only a blessed 
draper’s assistant.” (To be exact, he did not say 
blessed. The service of a shop may polish a man’s 
exterior ways, but the ’prentices’ dormitory is an 
indifferent school for either manners or morals.) 
He stood up and began wheeling his machine towards 
Esher. It was going to be a beautiful day, and the 
hedges and trees and the open country were all glori- 
ous to his town-tired eyes. But it was a little 
different from the elation of his start. 

“Look at the gentleman wizzer bicitle,” said a 
nursemaid on the path to a personage in a perambu- 


The Wheels of. Chance 


33 


lator. That healed him a little. “ ‘ Gentleman 
wizzer bicitle, ’ — ‘bloomin’ Dook ’ — I can’t look 
so very seedy,” he said to himself. “I ivonder — 
1 should just like to know — ” 

There was something very comforting in the track 
of her pneumatic running straight and steady along 
the road before him. It must be hers. No other 
pneumatic had been along the road that morning. 
It was just possible, of course, that he might see 
her once more — coming back. Should he try and 
say something smart? He speculated what man- 
ner of girl she might be. Probably she was one 
of these here New Women. He had a persuasion 
the cult had been maligned. Anyhow she was a 
Lady. And rich people, too! Her machine couldn’t 
have cost much under twenty pounds. His mind 
came round and dwelt some time on her visible 
self. Rational dress didn’t look a bit unwomanly. 
However, he disdained to be one of your fortune- 
hunters. Then his thoughts drove off at a tangent. 
He would certainly have to get something to eat at 
the next public house. 


D 


ON THE ROAD TO RIPLEY 


VI 

In the fulness of time, Mr. Hoopdriver drew near 
the Marquis of Granby at Esher, and as he came 
under the railway arch and saw the inn in front of 
him, he mounted his machine again and rode bravely 
up to the doorway. Burton and biscuit and cheese 
he had, which, indeed, is Burton in its proper com- 
pany ; and as he was eating there came a middle- 
aged man in a drab cycling suit, very red and moist 
and angry in the face, and asked bitterly for a lemon 
squash. And he sat down upon the seat in the bar 
and mopped his face. But scarcely had he sat down 
before he got up again and stared out of the doorway. 

“ Damn ! ” said he. Then, “ Damned Fool ! ” 

“Eigh?” said Mr. Hoopdriver, looking round sud- 
denly with a piece of cheese in his cheek. 

The man in drab faced him. “ I called myself a 
Damned Fool, sir. Have you any objections?” 

“ Oh ! — None. None,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. 
“ I thought you spoke to me. I didn’t hear what 
you said.” 


34 


The Wheels of Chance 35 

“To have a contemplative disposition and an en- 
ergetic temperament, sir, is hell. Hell, I tell you. 
A contemplative disposition and a phlegmatic tem- 
perament, all very well. But energy and philoso- 
phy — ! ” 

Mr. Hoopdriver looked as intelligent as he could, 
but said nothing. 

“ There’s no hurry, sir, none whatever. I came 
out for exercise, gentle exercise, and to notice the 
scenery and to botanise. And no sooner do I get 
on the accursed machine, than off I go hammer and 
tongs ; I never look to right or left, never notice a 
flower, never see a view, get hot, juicy, red, — like a 
grilled chop. Here I am, sir. Come from Guildford 
in something under the hour. Why, sir? ” 

Mr. Hoopdriver shook his head. 

“ Because I’m a damned fool, sir. Because I’ve 
reservoirs and reservoirs of muscular energy, and one 
or other of them is always leaking. It’s a most inter- 
esting road, birds and trees, I’ve no doubt, and way- 
side flowers, and there’s nothing I should enjoy more 
than watching them. But I can’t. Get me on that 
machine, and I have to go. Get me on anything, and 
I have to go. And I don’t want to go a bit. Why 
should a man rush about like a rocket, all pace and 
fizzle? Why? It makes me furious. I can assure 
you, sir, I go scorching along the road, and cursing 


36 


The Wheels of Chance 


aloud at myself for doing it. A quiet, dignified, 
philosophical man, that’s what I am — at bottom ; 
and here I am dancing with rage and swearing like a 
drunken tinker at a perfect stranger — 

“But my day’s wasted. I’ve lost all that country 
road, and now I’m on the fringe of London. And I 
might have loitered all the morning ! Ugh ! Thank 
Heaven, sir, you have not the irritable temperament, 
that you are not goaded to madness by your endoge- 
nous sneers, by the eternal wrangling of an uncom- 
fortable soul and body. I tell you, I lead a cat and 
dog life 7 — But what is the use of talking? — It’s 
all of a piece ! ” 

He tossed his head with unspeakable self-disgust, 
pitched the lemon squash into his mouth, paid for it, 
and without any further remark strode to the door. 
Mr. Hoopdriver was still wondering what to say when 
his interlocutor vanished. There was a noise of a 
foot spurning the gravel, and when Mr. Hoopdriver 
reached the doorway, the man in drab was a score of 
yards Londonward. He had already gathered pace. 
He pedalled with ill-suppressed anger, and his head 
was going down. In another moment he flew swiftly 
out of sight under the railway arch, and Mr. Hoop- 
driver saw him no more. 


After this whirlwind Mr. Hoopdriver paid his 
reckoning and — being now a little rested about the 
muscles of the knees — resumed his saddle and rode 
on in the direction of Ripley, along an excellent but 
undulating road. He was pleased to find his com- 
mand over his machine already sensibly increased. 
He set himself little exercises as he went along and 
performed them with variable success. There was, 
for instance, steering in between a couple of stones, 
say a foot apart, a deed of little difficulty as far as 
the front wheel is concerned. But the back wheel, 
not being under the sway of the human eye, is apt to 
take a vicious jump over the obstacle, which sends a 
violent concussion all along the spine to the skull, 
and will even jerk a loosely fastened hat over the 
eyes, and so lead to much confusion. And again, 
there was taking the hand or hands off the handle- 
bar, a thing simple in itself, but complex in its 
consequences. This particularly was a feat Mr. 
Hoopdriver desired to do, for several divergent 
reasons; but at present it simply led to convulsive 
37 


38 The Wheels of Chance 

balancings and novel and inelegant modes of dis- 
mounting. 

The human nose is, at its best, a needless excres- 
cence. There are those who consider it ornamental, 
and would regard a face deprived of its assistance 
with pity or derision; but it is doubtful whether our 
esteem is dictated so much by a sense of its absolute 
beauty as by the vitiating effect of a universally preva- 
lent fashion. In the case of bicycle students, as in 
the young of both sexes, its inutility is aggravated by 
its persistent annoyance — it requires constant atten- 
tion. Until one can ride with one hand, and search 
for, secure, and use a pocket handkerchief with the 
other, cycling is necessarily a constant series of 
descents. Nothing can be further from the author’s 
ambition than a wanton realism, but Mr. Hoop- 
driver’s nose is a plain and salient fact, and face it 
we must. And, in addition to this inconvenience, 
there are flies. Until the cyclist ( can steer with one 
hand, his face is given over to Beelzebub. Con- 
templative flies stroll over it, and trifle absently with 
its most sensitive surfaces. The only way to dis- 
lodge them is to shake the head forcibly and to 
writhe one’s features violently. This is not only a 
lengthy and frequently ineffectual method, but one 
exceedingly terrifying to foot passengers. And 
again, sometimes the beginner rides for a space with 


The Wheels of Chance 


39 


one eye closed by perspiration, giving him a waggish 
air foreign to his mood and ill calculated to overawe 
the impertinent. However, you will appreciate now 
the motive of Mr. Hoopdriver’s experiments. He 
presently attained sufficient dexterity to slap himself 
smartly and violently in the face with his right hand, 
without certainly overturning the machine; but his 
pocket handkerchief might have been in California 
for any good it was to him while he was in the saddle. 

Yet you must not think that because Mr. Hoop- 
driver was a little uncomfortable, he was unhappy in 
the slightest degree. In the background of his con- 
sciousness was the sense that about this time Briggs 
would be half-way through his window dressing, and 
Gosling, the apprentice, busy, with a chair turned 
down over the counter and his ears very red, trying 
to roll a piece of huckaback — only those who have 
rolled pieces of huckaback know quite how detestable 
huckaback is to roll — and the shop would be dusty 
and, perhaps, the governor about and snappy. And 
here was quiet and greenery, and one mucked about 
as the desire took one, without a soul to see, and 
here was no wailing of “Sayn,” no folding of rem- 
nants, no voice to shout, “ Hoopdriver, forward!” 
And once he almost ran over something wonderful, a 
little, low, red beast with a yellowish tail, that went 
rushing across the road before him. It was the first 


40 


The Wheels of Chance 


weasel he had ever seen in his cockney life. There 
were miles of this, scores of miles of this before him, 
pinewood and oak forest, purple, heathery moorland 
and grassy down, lush meadows, where shining rivers 
wound their lazy way, villages with square-towered, 
flint churches, and rambling, cheap, and hearty inns, 
clean, white, country towns, long downhill stretches, 
where one might ride at one’s ease (overlooking a jolt 
or so), and far away, at the end of it all, — the sea. 

What mattered a fly or so in the dawn of these 
delights? Perhaps he had been dashed a minute by 
the shameful episode of the Young Lady in Grey, and 
perhaps the memory of it was making itself a little 
lair in a corner of his brain from which it could 
distress him in the retrospect by suggesting that he 
looked like a fool; but for the present that trouble 
was altogether in abeyance. The man in drab — 
evidently a swell — had spoken to him as his equal, 
and the knees of his brown suit and the chequered 
stockings were ever before his eyes. (Or, rather, you 
could see the stockings by carrying the head a little 
to one side.) And to feel, little by little, his mastery 
over this delightful, treacherous machine, growing 
and growing ! — Every half-mile or so his knees 
reasserted themselves, and he dismounted and sat 
awhile by the roadside. 

It was at a charming little place between Esher 


The Wheels of Chance 


4i 


and Cobham, where a bridge crosses a stream, that 
Mr. Hoopdriver came across the other cyclist in 
brown. It is well to notice the fact here, although 
the interview was of the slightest, because it hap- 
pened that subsequently Hoopdriver saw a great deal 
more of this other man in brown. The other cyclist 
in brown had a machine of dazzling newness, and a 
punctured pneumatic lay across his knees. He was 
a man of thirty or more, with a whitish face, an 
aquiline nose, a lank, flaxen moustache, and very fair 
hair, and he scowled at the job before him. At the 
sight of him Mr. Hoopdriver pulled himself together, 
and rode by with the air of one born to the wheel. 
“A splendid morning,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, “and 
a fine surface.” 

“The morning and you and the surface be ever- 
lasting damned ! ” said the other man in brown as 
Hoopdriver receded. Hoopdriver heard the mumble 
and did not distinguish the words, and he felt a 
pleasing sense of having duly asserted the wide sym- 
pathy that binds all cyclists together, of having 
behaved himself as becomes one of the brotherhood 
of the wheel. The other man in brown watched his 
receding aspect. “Greasy proletarian,” said the 
other man in brown, feeling a proplutic dislike. 
“ Got a suit of brown, the very picture of this. One 
would think his sole aim in life had been to carica- 


42 


The Wheels of Chance 


ture me. It’s Fortune’s way with me. Look at his 
insteps on the treadles! Why does Heaven make 
such men?” And having lit a cigarette, the other 
man in brown returned to the business in hand. 

Mr. Hoopdriver worked up the hill towards Cob- 
ham to a point that he felt sure was out of sight of 
the other man in brown, and then he dismounted and 
pushed his machine ; until the proximity of the village 
and a proper pride drove him into the saddle again. 


VIII 


Beyond Cobham came a delightful incident, de- 
lightful, that is, in its beginning if a trifle indetermin- 
ate in the retrospect. It was perhaps half way between 
Cobham and Ripley. Mr. Hoopdriver dropped down 
a little hill, where, unfenced from the road, fine mossy 
trees and bracken lay on either side ; and looking up 
he saw an open country before him, covered with 
heather and set with pines, and a yellow road run- 
ing across it, and half a mile away perhaps, a little 
grey figure by the wayside waving something white. 
“ Never ! ” said Mr. Hoopdriver with his hands 
tightening on the handles. 

He resumed the treadles, staring away before him, 
jolted over a stone, wabbled, recovered, and began 
riding faster at once, with his eyes ahead. “ It can’t 
be,” said Hoopdriver. 

He rode his straightest, and kept his pedals spin- 
ning, albeit a limp numbness had resumed possession 
of his legs. “ It can't be,” he repeated, feeling every 
moment more assured that it was. “ Lord ! I don’t 
know even now,” said Mr. Hoopdriver (legs awhirl- 
ing), and then, “ Blow my legs ! ” 

43 


44 


The Wheels of Chance 


But he kept on and drew nearer and nearer, 
breathing hard and gathering flies like a flypaper. 
In the valley he was hidden. Then the road began 
to rise, and the resistance of the pedals grew. As he 
crested the hill he saw her, not a hundred yards away 
from him. “It’s her!” he said. “It’s her — right 
enough. It’s the suit’s done it,” — which was truer 
even than Mr. Hoopdriver thought. But now she was 
not waving her handkerchief, she was not even look- 
ing at him. She was wheeling her machine slowly 
along the road towards him, and admiring the pretty 
wooded hills towards Weybridge. She might have 
been unaware of his existence for all the recognition 
he got. 

For a moment horrible doubts troubled Mr. Hoop- 
driver. Had that handkerchief been a dream ? Be- 
sides which he was deliquescent and scarlet, and felt 
so. It must be her coquetry — the handkerchief was 
indisputable. Should he ride up to her and get off, 
or get off and ride up to her? It was as well she 
didn’t look, because he would certainly capsize if he 
lifted his cap. Perhaps that was her consideration. 
Even as he hesitated he was upon her. She must 
have heard his breathing. He gripped the brake. 
Steady ! His right leg waved in the air, and he 
came down heavily and staggering, but erect. She 
turned her eyes upon him with admirable surprise. 


The Wheels of Chance 


45 


Mr. Hoopdriver tried to smile pleasantly, hold up 
his machine, raise his cap, and bow gracefully. In- 
deed he felt that he did as much. He was a man 
singularly devoid of the minutiae of self-conscious- 
ness, and he was quite unaware of a tail of damp 
hair lying across his forehead, and just clearing his 
eyes, and of the general disorder of his coiffure. 
There was an interrogative pause. 

“ What can I have the pleasure ? ” began Mr. Hoop- 
driver, insinuatingly. “ I mean” (remembering his 
emancipation and abruptly assuming his most aristo- 
cratic intonation), “Can I be of any assistance to 
you?” 

The Young Lady in Grey bit her lower lip and said 
very prettily, “ None, thank you.” She glanced away 
from him and made as if she would proceed. 

“ Oh ! ” said Mr. Hoopdriver, taken aback and 
suddenly crest-fallen again. It was so unexpected. 
He tried to grasp the situation. Was she coquetting? 
Or had he — ? 

“ Excuse me, one minute,” he said, as she began to 
wheel her machine again. 

“Yes?” she said, stopping and staring a little, with 
the colour in her cheeks deepening. 

“ I should not have alighted if I had not — imag- 
ined that you, — er, waved something white. — ” He 
paused. 


46 The Wheels of Chance 

She looked at him doubtfully. He had seen it ! 
She decided that he was not an unredeemed rough 
taking advantage of a mistake, but an innocent soul 
meaning well while seeking happiness. “ I did wave 
my handkerchief,” she said. “ I’m very sorry. I am 
pecxting — a friend, a gentlemn,” — she seemed to 
flush pink for a minute. “ He is riding a bicycle and 
dressed in — in brown ; and at a distance, you know — ” 

“ Oh, quite ! ” said Mr. Hoopdriver, bearing up in 
manly fashion against his bitter disappointment. “ Cer- 
tainly.” 

“ I’m Awfully sorry, you know. Troubling you to 
dismount, and all that.” 

“ No trouble. ’Ssure you,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, 
mechanically and bowing over his saddle as if it was a 
counter. Somehow he could not find it in his heart 
to tell her that the man was beyond there with a punc- 
tured pneumatic. He looked back along the road 
and tried to think of something else to say. But the 
gulf in the conversation widened rapidly and hope- 
lessly. “There’s nothing further,” began Mr. Hoop- 
driver desperately, recurring to his stock of cliches. 

“ Nothing, thank you,” she said decisively. And 
immediately, “This is the Ripley road?” 

“ Certainly,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “ Ripley is 
about two miles from here. According to the mile- 
stones.” 


The Wheels of Chance 


4 7 


“ Thank you,” she said warmly. “ Thank you so 
much. I felt sure there was no mistake. And I 
really am Awfully sorry — ” 

“ Don’t mention it,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “ Don’t 
mention it.” He hesitated and gripped his handles 
to mount. “ It’s me,” he said, “ ought to be sorry.” 
Should he say it? Was it an impertinence? Any- 
how ! — “ Not being the other gentleman, you know.” 

He tried a quietly insinuating smile that he knew 
for a grin even as he smiled it ; felt she disapproved 
— that she despised him, was overcome with shame at 
her expression, turned his back upon her, and began 
(very clumsily) to mount. He did so with a horrible 
swerve, and went pedalling off, riding very badly, as 
he was only too painfully aware. Nevertheless, thank 
Heaven for the mounting ! He could not see her 
because it was so dangerous for him to look round, 
but he could imagine her indignant and pitiless. He 
felt an unspeakable idiot. One had to be so careful 
what one said to Young Ladies, and he’d gone and 
treated her just as though she was only a Larky Girl. 
It was unforgivable. He always was a fool. You 
could tell from her manner she didn’t think him a 
gentleman. One glance, and she seemed to look clear 
through him and all his pretence. What rot it was 
venturing to speak to a girl like that ! With her edu- 
cation she was bound to see through him at once. 


48 The Wheels of Chance 

How nicely she spoke too ! nice clear-cut words ! 
She made him feel what slush his own accent was. 
And that silly remark. What was it? — ‘ Not being 
the other gentleman, you know!, No point in it. 
And ‘ gentleman /’ What could she be thinking of 
him? 

But really the Young Lady in Grey had dismissed 
Hoopdriver from her thoughts almost before he had 
vanished round the corner. She had thought no ill 
of him. His manifest awe and admiration of her had 
given her not an atom of offence. But for her just 
now there were weightier things to think about, 
things that would affect all the rest of her life. She 
continued slowly walking her machine Londonward. 
Presently she stopped. “ Oh ! Why doesn't he 
come?” she said, and stamped her foot petulantly. 
Then, as if in answer, coming down the hill among 
the trees, appeared the other man in brown, dis- 
mounted and wheeling his machine. 


I 


HOW MR. HOOPDRIVER WAS HAUNTED 


IX 

As Mr. Hoopdriver went swaggering along the 
Ripley Road, it came to him, with an unwarrantable 
sense of comfort, that he had seen the last of the 
Young Lady in Grey. But the ill-concealed bladery 
of the machine, the present machinery of Fate, the 
deus ex machina , so to speak, was against him. The 
bicycle, torn from this attractive young woman, grew 
heavier and heavier, and continually more unsteady. 
It seemed a choice between stopping at Ripley or 
dying in the flower of his days. He went into the 
Unicorn, after propping his machine outside the door, 
and, as he cooled down and smoked his Red Herring 
cigarette while the cold meat was getting ready, he 
saw from the window the Young Lady in Grey and 
the other man in brown, entering Ripley. 

They filled him with apprehension by looking at 
the house which sheltered him, but the sight of his 
bicycle, propped in a drunk and incapable attitude 
against the doorway, humping its racketty mud-guard 
49 


50 


The Wheels of Chance 


and leering at them with its darkened lantern eye, 
droev them away — so it seemed to Mr. Hoopdriver 
— to the spacious swallow of the Golden Dragon. 
The young lady was riding very slowly, but the other 
man in brown had a bad puncture and was wheeling 
his machine. Mr. Hoopdriver noted his flaxen 
moustache, his aquiline nose, his rather bent shoul- 
ders, with a sudden, vivid dislike. 

The maid at the Unicorn is naturally a pleasant 
girl, but she is jaded by the incessant incidence 
of cyclists, and Hoopdriver’s mind, even as he 
conversed with her in that cultivated voice of his — 
of the weather, of the distance from London, and of 
the excellence of the Ripley Road — wandered to 
the incomparable freshness and brilliance of the 
Young Lady in Grey. As he sat at meat he kept 
turning his head to the window to see what signs 
there were of that person, but the face of the Golden 
Dragon displayed no appreciation of the delightful 
morsel it had swallowed. As an incidental conse- 
quence of this distraction, Mr. Hoopdriver was for 
a minute greatly inconvenienced by a mouthful of 
mustard. After he had called for his reckoning he 
went, his courage being high with meat and mustard, 
to the door, intending to stand, with his legs wide 
apart and his hands deep in his pockets, and stare 
boldly across the road. But just then the other man 


The Wheels of Chance 


5 


in brown appeared in the gateway of the ‘Golden 
Dragon’ yard — it is one of those delightful inns that 
date from the coaching days — wheeling his punc- 
tured machine. He was taking it to Flambeau’s, the 
repairers ’s. He looked up and saw Hoopdriver, 
stared for a minute, and then scowled darkly. 

But Hoopdriver remained stoutly in the doorway 
until the other man in brown had disappeared into 
Flambeau’s. Then he glanced momentarily at the 
Golden Dragon, puckered his mouth into a whistle 
of unconcern, and proceeded to wheel his machine 
into the road until a sufficient margin for mounting 
was secured. 

Now, at that time, I say, Hoopdriver was rather 
desirous than not of seeing no more of the Young Lady 
in Grey. The other man in brown he guessed was 
her brother, albeit that person was of a pallid fair- 
ness, differing essentially from her rich colouring; 
and, besides, he felt he had made a hopeless fool of 
himself. But the afternoon was against him, intoler- 
ably hot, especially .on the top' of his head, and the 
virtue had gone out of his legs to digest his cold 
meat, and altogether his ride to Guildford was 
exceedingly intermittent. At times he would walk, 
at times lounge by the wayside, and every public 
house, in spite of Briggs and a sentiment of economy, 
meant a lemonade and a dash of bitter. (For that is 


52 The Wheels of Chance 

the experience of all those who go on wheels, that 
drinking begets thirst, even more than thirst begets 
drinking, until at last the man who yields becomes a 
hell unto himself, a hell in which the fire dieth not, 
and the thirst is not quenched.) Until a pennyworth 
of acrid green apples turned the current that threat- 
ened to carry him away. Ever and again a cycle, or 
a party of cyclists, would go by, with glittering wheels 
and softly running chains, and on each occasion, to 
save his self-respect, Mr. Hoopdriver descended and 
feigned some trouble with his saddle. Each time he 
descended with less trepidation. 

He did not reach Guildford until nearly four 
o’clock, and then he was so much exhausted that he 
decided to put up there for the night, at the Yellow 
Hammer Coffee Tavern. And after he had cooled a 
space and refreshed himself with tea and bread and 
butter and jam, — the tea he drank noisily out of the 
saucer, — he went out to loiter away the rest of tlie 
afternoon. Guildford is an altogether charming old 
town, famous, so he learnt from a Guide Book, as the 
scene of Master Tupper’s great historical novel of 
Stephen Langton, and it has a delightful castle, all 
set about with geraniums and brass plates commem- 
orating the gentlemen who put them up, and its 
Guildhall is a Tudor building, very pleasant to see, 
and in the afternoon the shops are busy and the people 


The Wheels of Chance 


53 


going to and fro on the pavements look bright and 
prosperous. It was nice to peep in the windows and 
see the heads of the men and girls in the drapers’ 
shops, busy as busy, serving away. The High Street 
runs down at an angle of seventy degrees to the 
horizon (so it seemed to Mr. Hoopdriver, whose 
feeling for gradients was unnaturally exalted), and 
it brought his heart into his mouth to see a cyclist 
ride down it, like a fly crawling down a window pane. 
The man hadn’t even a brake. He visited the castle 
early in the evening and paid his twopence to ascend 
the Keep. 

At the top, from the cage, he looked down over 
the clustering red roofs of the town and the tower of 
the church, and then going to the southern side sat 
down and lit a Red Herring cigarette, and stared 
away south over the old bramble-bearing, fern-beset 
ruin, at the waves of blue upland that rose, one behind 
another, across the Weald, to the lazy altitudes of 
Hindhead and Butser. His pale grey eyes were full 
of complacency and pleasurable anticipation. To- 
morrow he would go riding across that wide valley. 

He did not notice any one else had come up the 
Keep after him until he heard a soft voice behind 
him saying: “Well, Miss Beaumont , here’s the view.” 
Something in the accent pointed to a jest in the 


name. 


54 


The Wheels of Chance 


“It’s a dear old town, brother George,” answered 
another voice that sounded familiar enough, and 
turning his head, Mr. Hoopdriver saw the other man 
in brown and the Young Lady in Grey, with their backs 
towards him. She turned her smiling profile towards 
Hoopdriver. “Only, you know, brothers don’t call 
their sisters — ” 

She glanced over her shoulder and saw Hoop- 
driver. “ Damn ! ” said the other man in brown, 
quite audibly, starting as he followed her glance. 

Mr. Hoopdriver, with a fine air of indifference, 
resumed the Weald. “Beautiful old town, isn’t 
it?” said the other man in brown, after a quite 
perceptible pause. 

“Isn’t it?” said the Young Lady in Grey. 

Another pause began. 

“Can’t get alone anywhere,” said the other man 
in brown, looking round. 

Then Mr. Hoopdriver perceived clearly that he 
was in the way, and decided to retreat. It was just 
his luck of course that he should stumble at the head 
of the steps and vanish with indignity. This was 
the third time that he'd seen him , and the fourth 
time her. And of course he was too big a fat-head 
to raise his cap to her ! He thought of that at the 
foot of the Keep. Apparently they aimed at the 
South Coast just as he did. He’d get up betimes 


The Wheels of Chance 


55 


the next day and hurry off to avoid her — them, that 
is. It never occurred to Mr. Hoopdriver that Miss 
Beaumont and her brother might do exactly the same 
thing, and that evening, at least, the peculiarity of a 
brother calling his sister “Miss Beaumont” did not 
recur to him. He was much too preoccupied with 
an analysis of his own share of these encounters. 
He found it hard to be altogether satisfied about the 
figure he had cut, revise his memories as he would. 

Once more quite unintentionally he stumbled 
upon these two people. It was about seven o’clock. 
He stopped outside a linen draper’s and peered over 
the goods in the window at the assistants in torment. 
He could have spent a whole day happily at that. 
He told himself that he was trying to see how they 
dressed out the brass lines over their counters, in a 
purely professional spirit, but down at the very 
bottom of his heart he knew better. The customers 
were a secondary consideration, and it was only after 
the lapse of perhaps a minute that he perceived that 
among them was — the Young Lady in Grey! He 
turned away from the window at once, and saw the 
other man in brown standing at the edge of the 
pavement and regarding him with a very curious 
expression of face. 

There came into Mr. Hoopdriver’ s head the curi- 
ous problem whether he was to be regarded as a 


56 


The Wheels of Chance 


nuisance haunting these people, or whether they 
were to be regarded as a nuisance haunting him. 
He abandoned the solution at last in despair, quite 
unable to decide upon the course he should take 
at the next encounter, whether he should scowl 
savagely at the couple or assume an attitude eloquent 
of apology and propitiation. 


THE IMAGININGS OF MR. HOOPDRIVER’S 
HEART 


X 

Mr. Hoopdriver was (in the days of this story) a 
poet, though he had never written a line of verse. Or 
perhaps romancer will describe him better. Like I 
know not how many of those who do the fetching and 
carrying of life, — a great number of them certainly, 
— his real life was absolutely uninteresting, and if he 
had faced it as realistically as such people do in Mr. 
Gissing’s novels, he would probably have come by 
way of drink to suicide in the course of a year. But 
that was just what he had the natural wisdom not to 
do. On the contrary, he was always decorating his 
existence with imaginative tags, hopes, poses, delib- 
erate and yet quite effectual self-deceptions ; his 
experiences were mere material for a romantic super- 
structure. If some power had given Hoopdriver the 
‘ giftie ’ Burns invoked, 1 to see oursels as ithers see 
us,’ he would probably have given it away to some one 
else at the very earliest opportunity. His entire life^ 
57 


58 


The Wheels of Chance 


you must understand, was not a continuous romance, 
but a series of short stories linked only by the general 
resemblance of their hero, a brown-haired young fel- 
low commonly, with blue eyes and a fair moustache, 
graceful rather than strong, sharp and resolute rather 
than clever (cp., as the scientific books say, p. i). 
Invariably this person possessed an iron will. The 
stories fluctuated indefinitely. The smoking of a 
cigarette converted Hoopdriver’s hero into something 
entirely worldly, subtly rakish, with a humorous twin- 
kle in the eye and some gallant sinning in the 
background. You should have seen Mr. Hoopdriver 
promenading the brilliant gardens at Earl’s Court 
on an early closing night. His meaning glances ! 
(I dare not give the meaning.) Such an influence 
as the eloquence of a revivalist preacher would suffice 
to divert the story into absolutely different channels, 
make him a white-souled hero, a man still pure, walk- 
ing untainted and brave and helpful through miry 
ways. The appearance of some daintily gloved frock- 
coated' gentleman with buttonhole and eyeglass com- 
plete, gallantly attendant in the rear of customers, 
served again to start visions of a simplicity essentially 
Cromwell-like, of sturdy plainness, of a strong, silent 
man going righteously through the world. This day 
there had predominated a fine leisurely person im- 
maculately clothed, and riding on an unexceptional 


The Wheels of Chance 


59 


machine, a mysterious person — quite unostentatious, 
but with accidental self-revelation of something over 
the common, even a “ bloomin’ Dook,” it might be 
incognito, on the tour of the South Coast. 

You must not think that there was any telling of 
these stories of this life-long series by Mr. Hoop- 
driver. He never dreamt that they were known to 
a soul. If it were not for the trouble, I would, I 
think, go back and rewrite this section from the 
beginning, expunging the statements that Hoopdriver 
was a poet and a romancer, and saying instead that 
he was a playwright and acted his own plays. He 
was not only the sole performer, but the entire audi- 
ence, and the entertainment kept him almost continu- 
ously happy. Yet even that playwright comparison 
scarcely expresses all the facts of the case. After all, 
very many of his dreams never got acted at all, possi- 
bly indeed, most of them, the dreams of a solitary 
walk for instance, or of a tramcar ride, the dreams 
dreamt behind the counter while trade was slack and 
mechanical foldings and rollings occupied his muscles. 
Most of them were little dramatic situations, crucial 
dialogues, the return of Mr. Hoopdriver to his native 
village, for instance, in a well-cut holiday suit and 
natty gloves, the unheard asides of the rival neigh- 
bours, the delight of the old ‘ mater,’ the intelligence 
— “A ten-pound rise all at once from Antrobus, 


6o 


The Wheels of Chance 


mater. Whad d’yer think of that?” or again, the 
first whispering of love, dainty and witty and tender, 
to the girl he served a few days ago with sateen, or 
a gallant rescue of generalised beauty in distress from 
truculent insult or ravening dog. 

So many people do this — and you never suspect it. 
You see a tattered lad selling matches in the street, 
and you think there is nothing between him and the 
bleakness of immensity, between him and utter abase- 
ment, but a few tattered rags and a feeble muscu- 
lature. And all unseen by you a host of heaven-sent 
fatuities swathes him about, even, maybe, as they 
swathe you about. Many men have never seen their 
own profiles or the backs of their heads, and for the 
back of your own mind no mirror has been invented. 
They swathe him about so thickly that the pricks of 
fate scarce penetrate to him, or become but a pleasant 
titillation. And so, indeed, it is with all of us who 
go on living. Self-deception is the anaesthetic of 
life, while God is carving out our beings. 

But to return from this general vivisection to Mr. 
Hoopdriver’s imaginings. You see now how external 
our view has been ; we have had but the slightest 
transitory glimpses of the drama within, of how the 
things looked in the magic mirror of Mr. Hoop- 
driver’s mind. On the road to Guilford and during 
his encounters with his haunting fellow-cyclists the 


The Wheels of Chance 61 

drama had presented chiefly the quiet gentleman to 
whom we have alluded, but at Guilford, under more 
varied stimuli, he burgeoned out more variously. 
There was the house agent’s window, for instance, set 
him upon a charming little comedy. He would go in, 
make inquires about that thirty-pound house, get the 
key possibly and go over it — the thing would stimu- 
late the clerk’s curiosity immensely. He searched 
his mind for a reason for this proceeding and dis- 
covered that he was a dynamiter needing privacy. 
Upon that theory he procured the key, explored the 
house carefully, said darkly that it might suit his 
special needs, but that there were others to consult. 
The clerk, however, did not understand the allusion, 
and merely pitied him as one who had married young 
and paired himself to a stronger mind than his own. 

This proceeding in some occult way led to the 
purchase of a note-book and pencil, and that started 
the conception of an artist taking notes. That was a 
little game Mr. Hoopdriver had, in congenial com- 
pany, played in his still younger days — to the infinite 
annoyance of quite a number of respectable excur- 
sionists at Hastings. In early days Mr. Hoopdriver 
had been, as his mother proudly boasted, a ‘bit of 
a drawer,’ but a conscientious and normally stupid 
schoolmaster perceived the incipient talent and had 
nipped it in the bud by a series of lessons in art. 


62 


The Wheels of Chance 


However, our principal character figured about quite 
happily in old corners of Guilford, and once the other 
man in brown, looking out of the bay window of the 
Earl of Kent, saw him standing in a corner by a 
gateway, note-book in hand, busily sketching the Earl’s 
imposing features. At which sight the other man in 
brown started back from the centre of the window, 
so as to be hidden from him, and crouching slightly, 
watched him intently through the interstices of the 
lace curtains. 






OMISSIONS 


XI 

Now the rest of the acts of Mr. Hoopdriver in 
Guildford, on the great opening day of his holidays, 
are not to be detailed here. How he wandered about 
the old town in the dusk, and up to the Hogsback to 
see the little lamps below and the little stars above 
come out one after another ; how he returned through 
the yellow-lit streets to the Yellow Hammer Coffee 
Tavern and supped bravely in the commercial room 
— a Man among Men; how he joined in the talk 
about flying machines and the possibilities of elec- 
tricity, witnessing that flying machines were “dead 
certain to come,” and that electricity was “Wonder- 
ful, wonderful ” ; how he went and watched the billiard 
playing and said, “Left ’em” several times with an 
oracular air ; how he fell a-yawning ; and how he got 
out his cycling map and studied it intently, — are 
things that find no mention here. Nor will I enlarge 
upon his going into the writing- room, and marking 
the road from London to Guildford with a fine, bright 
63 


64 


The Wheels of Chance 


line of the reddest of red ink. In his little cyclist 
hand-book there is a diary, and in the diary there is 
this entry — it is there to this day to witness that this 
book is no lying fable written to while away an 
hour : — 

All these things I pass over. At last he fell a-yawn- 
ing so much that very reluctantly indeed he set about 
finishingt his great and splendid day. (Alas ! that 
all days must end at last ! ) He got his candle in the 
hall from a friendly waiting-maid, and passed upward 
— whither a modest novelist, who writes for the 
family circle, dare not follow. Yet I may tell you 
that he knelt down at his bedside, happy and drowsy, 
and said, “Our Father ’chartin’ heaven,” even as he 
had learnt it by rote from his mother nearly twenty 
years ago. And anon when his breathing had be- 
come deep and regular, we may creep into his bed- 
room and catch him at his dreams. He is lying 
upon his left side, with his arm under the pillow. It 
is dark, and he is hidden ; but if you could have seen 
his face, sleeping there in the darkness, I think you 
would have perceived, in spite of that treasured, thin, 
and straggling moustache, in spite of your memory 
of the course words he had used that day, that the 
man before you was, after all, only a little child 
asleep. 


The Wheels of Chance 



21 Wed. Sun r. 4 ./ 1 . m. s. 7 h.jzm. 



THE DREAMS OF MR. HOOPDRIVER 
XII 

In spite of the drawn blinds and the darkness, you 
have just seen Mr. Hoopdriver’s face peaceful in its 
beauty sleep in the little, plain bedroom at the very 
top of the Yellow Hammer Coffee Tavern at Guild- 
ford. That was before midnight. As the night 
progressed he was disturbed by dreams. 

After your first day of cycling one dream is inevit- 
able. A memory of motion lingers in the muscles of 
your legs, and round and round they seem to go. 
You ride through Dreamland on wonderful dream 
bicycles that change and grow ; you ride down 
steeples and staircases and over precipices ; you hover 
in horrible suspense over inhabited towns, vainly 
seeking for a brake your hand cannot find, to save 
you from a headlong fall ; you plunge into weltering 
rivers, and rush helplessly at monstrous obstacles. 
Anon Mr. Hoopdriver found himself riding out of 
the darkness of non-existence, pedalling Ezekiel’s 
Wheels across the Weald of Surrey, jolting over the 
66 


The Wheels of Chance 


6 7 


hills and smashing villages in his course, while the 
other man in brown cursed and swore at him and 
shouted to stop his career. There was the Putney 
heath-keeper, too, and the man in drab raging at 
him. He felt an awful fool, a — what was it? — a 
juggins, ah! — a Juggernaut. The villages went off 
one after another with a soft, squashing noise. He 
did not see the Young Lady in Grey, but he knew she 
was looking at his back. He dared not look round. 
Where the devil was the brake? It must have fallen 
off. And the bell? Right in front of him was 
Guildford. He tried to shout and warn the town to 
get out of the way, but his voice was gone as well. 
Nearer, nearer! it was fearful! and in another 
moment the houses were creacking like nuts and the 
blood of the inhabitants squirting this way and that. 
The streets were black with people running. Right 
under his wheels he saw the Young Lady in Grey. A 
feeling of horror came upon Mr. Hoopdriver; he 
flung himself sideways to descend, forgetting how 
high he was, and forthwith he began falling, falling, 
falling. 

He woke up, turned over, saw the new moon on 
the window, wondered a little, and went to sleep 
again. 

This second dream went back into the first some- 
how, and the other man in brown came threatening 


68 


The Wheels of Chance 


and shouting towards him. He grew uglier and 
uglier as he approached, and his expression was 
intolerably evil. He came and looked close into 
Mr. Hoopdriver’s eyes and then receded to an 
incredible distance. His face seemed to be lumi- 
nous. “Miss Beaumont f he said, and splashed up 
a spray of suspicion. Some one began letting off 
fireworks, chiefly Catherine wheels, down the shop, 
though Mr. Hoopdriver knew it was against the rules. 
For it seemed that the place they were in was a vast 
shop, and then Mr. Hoopdriver perceived that the 
other man in brown was the shop-walker, differing 
from most shop-walkers in the fact that he was lit 
from within as a Chinese lantern might be. And the 
customer Mr. Hoopdriver was going to serve was the 
Young Lady in Grey. Curious he hadn’t noticed it 
before. She was in grey as usual, — rationals, — and 
she had her bicycle leaning against the counter. 
She smiled quite frankly at him, just as she had 
done when she had apologised for stopping him. 
And her form, as she leant towards him, was full of 
a sinuous grace he had never noticed before. “ What 
can I have the pleasure?” said Mr. Hoopdriver at 
once, and she said, “The Ripley road.” So he got 
out the Ripley road and unrolled it and showed it 
to her, and she said that would do very nicely, and 
kept on looking at him and smiling, and he began 


The Wheels of Chance 69 

measuring off eight miles by means of the yard 
measure on the counter, eight miles being a dress 
length, a rational dress length, that is: and then the 
other man in brown came upland wanted to interfere, 
and said Mr. Hoopdriver was a cad, besides measur- 
ing it off too slowly. And as Mr. Hoopdriver began 
to measure faster, the other man in brown said the 
Youhg Lady in Grey had been there long enough, and 
that he was her brother, or else she would not be 
travelling with him, and he suddenly whipped his 
arm about her waist and made off with her. It 
occurred to Mr. Hoopdriver even at the moment that 
this was scarcely brotherly behaviour. Of course it 
wasn’t! The sight of the other man gripping her so 
familiarly enraged him frightfully; he leapt over the 
counter forthwith and gave chase. They ran round 
the shop and up an iron staircase into the Keep, and 
so out upon the Ripley road. For some time they 
kept dodging in and out of a wayside hotel with two 
front doors and an inn yard. The other man could 
not run very fast because he had hold of the Young 
Lady in Grey, but Mr. Hoopdriver was hampered by 
the absurd behaviour of his legs. They would not 
stretch out; they would keep going round and round 
like the treadles of a wheel, so that he made the 
smallest steps conceivable. This dream came to no 
crisis. The chase seemed to last an interminable 


70 


The Wheels of Chance 


time, and all kinds of people, heath-keepers, shop- 
men, policemen, the old man in the Keep, the angry 
man in drab, the barmaid at the Unicorn, men with 
flying-machines, people playing billiards in the door- 
ways, silly, headless fiugres, stupid cocks and hens 
encumbered with parcels and umbrellas and water- 
proofs, people carrying bedroom candles, and such- 
like riffraff, kept getting in his way and annoying 
him, although he sounded his electric bell, and said, 
“Wonderful, wonderful ! ” at every corner. 


HOW MR. HOOPDRIVER WENT TO 
HASLEMERE 


XIII 

There was some little delay in getting Mr. Hoop- 
driver’s breakfast, so that after all he was not free to 
start out of Guildford until just upon the stroke of 
nine. He wheeled his machine from the High Street 
in some perplexity. He did not know whether this 
young lady, who had seized hold of his imagination 
so strongly, and her unfriendly and possibly menacing 
brother, were ahead of him or even now breakfasting 
somewhere in Guildford. In the former case he 
might loiter as he chose, in the latter he must hurry, 
and possibly take refuge in branch roads. 

It occurred to him as being in some obscure way 
strategic, that he would leave Guildford not by the 
obvious Portsmouth road, but by the road running 
through Shalford. Along this pleasant shady way he 
felt sufficiently secure to resume his exercises in rid- 
ing with one hand off the handles, and in staring over 
his shoulder. He came over once or twice, but fell 
7i 


73 


The Wheels of Chance ' 


on his foot each time, and perceived that he was 
improving. Before he got to Bramley a spacious by- 
way snapped him up, ran with him for half a mile or 
more, and dropped him as a terrier drops a walking- 
stick, upon the Portsmouth again, a couple of miles 
from Godaiming. He entered Godaiming on his 
feet, for the road through that delightful town is 
beyond dispute the vilest in the world, a mere tumult 
of road metal, a way of peaks and precipices, and, 
after a successful experiment with cider at the Wool- 
pack, he pushed on to Milford. 

All this time he was acutely aware of the existence 
of the Young Lady in Gray and her companion in 
brown, as a child in the dark is of Bogies. Some- 
times he could hear their pneumatics stealing upon 
him from behind, and looking round saw a long stretch 
of vacant road. Once he saw far ahead of him a glit- 
tering wheel, but it proved to be a workingman riding 
to destruction on a very tall ordinary. And he felt 
a, curious vague uneasiness about that Young Lady in 
Grey, for which he was altogether unable to account. 
Now that he was awake he had forgotten that accent- 
uated “ Miss Beaumont ” that had been quite clear in 
his dream. But the curious dream conviction, that 
the girl was not really the man’s sister, would not let 
itself be forgotten. Why, for instance, should a man 
want to be alone with his sister on the top of a tower? 


The Wheels of Chance 


73 


At Milford his bicycle made, so to speak, an ass of 
itself. A finger-post suddenly jumped out at him, 
vainly indicating an abrupt turn to the right, and 
Mr. Hoopdriver would have slowed up and read the 
inscription, but no ! — the bicycle would not let him. 
The road dropped a little into Milford, and the thing 
shied, put down its head and bolted, and Mr. Hoop- 
driver only thought of the brake when the finger- 
post was passed. Then to have recovered the point 
of intersection would have meant dismounting. For 
as yet there was no road wide enough for Mr. Hoop- 
driver to turn in. So he went on his way — or to be 
precise, he did exactly the opposite thing. The road 
to the right was the Portsmouth road, and this he was 
on went to Haslemere and Midhurst. By that error 
it came about that he once more came upon his 
fellow-travellers of yesterday, coming on them sud- 
denly, without the slightest preliminary announce- 
ment and when they least expected it, under the 
Southwestern Railway arch. “ It’s horrible,” said 
a girlish voice ; “ it’s brutal — cowardly — ” And 
stopped. 

His expression, as he shot out from the archway 
at them, may have been something between a grin of 
recognition and a scowl of annoyance at himself for 
the unintentional intrusion. But disconcerted as he 
was, he was yet able to appreciate something of the 


74 


The Wheels of Chance 


peculiarity of their mutual attitudes. The bicycles 
were lying by the roadside, and the two riders stood 
face to face. The other man in brown’s attitude, as 
it flashed upon Hoopdriver, was a deliberate pose ; he 
twirled his moustache and smiled faintly, and he was 
conscientiously looking amused. And the girl stood 
rigid, her arms straight by her side, her handkerchief 
clenched in her hand, and her face was flushed, with 
the faintest touch of red upon her eyelids. She 
seemed to Mr. Hoopdriver’s sense to be indignant. 
But that was the impression of a second. A mask of 
surprised recognition fell across this revelation of 
emotion as she turned her head towards him, and the 
pose of the other man in brown vanished too in a 
momentary astonishment. And then he had passed 
them, and was riding on towards Haslemere to make 
what he could of the swift picture that had photo- 
graphed itself on his brain. 

“ Rum,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “ It’s dashed rum ! ” 

“They were having a row.” 

“ Smirking — ” What he called the other man in 
brown need not trouble us,. 

“ Annoying her ! ” That any human being should 
do that ! 

“ Why?” 

The impulse to interfere leapt suddenly into Mr. 
Hoopdriver’s mind. He grasped his brake, de- 


The Wheels of Chance 


75 


scended, and stood looking hesitatingly back. They 
still stood by the railway bridge, and it seemed to 
Mr. Hoopdriver’s fancy that she was stamping her 
foot. He hesitated, then turned his bicycle round, 
mounted, and rode back towards them, gripping his 
courage firmly lest it should slip away and leave him 
ridiculous. “ I’ll offer ’im a screw ’ammer,” said Mr. 
Hoopdriver. Then, with a wave of fierce emotion, 
he saw that the girl was crying. In another moment 
they heard him and turned in surprise. Certainly 
she had been crying ; her eyes were swimming in 
tears, and the other man in brown looked exceed- 
ingly disconcerted. Mr. Hoopdriver descended and 
stood over his machine. 

“ Nothing wrong, I hope?” he said, looking the 
other man in brown squarely in the face. “No 
accident? ” 

“ Nothing,” said the other man in brown shortly. 
“ Nothing at all, thanks.” 

“But,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, with a great effort, 
“the young lady is crying. I thought perhaps — ” 

The Young Lady in Grey started, gave Hoopdriver 
one swift glance, and covered one eye with her hand- 
kerchief. “It’s this speck,” she said. “This speck 
of dust in my eye.” 

“ This lady,” said the other man in brown, explain- 
ing, “ has a gnat in her eye.” 


;6 


The Wheels of Chance 


There was a pause. The young lady busied herself 
with her eye. “ I believe it’s out,” she said. The 
other man in brown made movements indicating 
commiserating curiosity concerning the alleged fly. 
Mr. Hoopdriver — the word is his own — stood flab- 
ber-gastered. He had all the intuition of the simple- 
minded. He knew there was no fly. But the ground 
was suddenly cut from his feet. There is a limit to 
knight-errantry — dragons and false knights are all 
very well, but flies ! Fictitious flies ! Whatever the 
trouble was, it was evidently not his affair. He felt he 
had made a fool of himself again. He would have 
mumbled some sort of apology ; but the other man 
in brown gave him no time, turned on him abruptly, 
even fiercely. “ I hope,” he said, “ that your curiosity 
is satisfied ? ” 

“ Certainly,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

“ Then we won’t detain you.” 

And, ignominiously, Mr. Hoopdriver turned his 
machine about, struggled upon it, and resumed the 
road southward. And when he learnt that he was not 
on the Portsmouth road, it was impossible to turn and 
go back, for that would be to face his shame again, 
and so he had to ride on by Brook Street up the hill 
to Haslemere. And away to the right the Portsmouth 
road mocked at him and made off to its fastnesses 
amid the sunlit green and purple masses of Hindhead. 


The Wheels of Chance 


77 


The sun shone, and the wide blue hill views and 
pleasant valleys one saw on either hand from the sand- 
scarred roadway, even the sides of the road itself set 
about with grey heather scrub and prickly masses of 
gorse, and pine trees with their year’s growth still 
bright green, against the darkened needles of the 
previous years, was fresh and delightful to Mr. Hoop- 
driver’s eyes. But the brightness of the day and the 
day-old sense of freedom fought an uphill fight against 
his intolerable vexation at that abominable encounter, 
and had still to win it when he reached Haslemere. 
A great brown shadow, a monstrous hatred of the 
other man in brown, possessed him. He had con- 
ceived the brilliant idea of abandoning Portsmouth, or 
at least giving up the straight way to his fellow- wayfar- 
ers, and of striking out boldly to the left, eastward. 
He did not dare to stop at any of the inviting public- 
houses in the main street of Haslemere, but turned up 
a side way and found a little beer-shop, the Good Hope, 
wherein to refresh himself. And there he ate and 
gossipped condescendingly with an aged labourer, as- 
suming the while for his own private enjoyment the 
attributes of a Lost Heir, and afterwards mounted and 
rode on towards Northchapel, a place which a number 
of finger-posts conspired to boom, but which some 
sidious turning prevented him from attaining. 


HOW MR. HOOPDRIVER REACHED 
MIDHURST 


XIV 

It was one of my uncle’s profoundest remarks that 
human beings are the only unreasonable creatures. 
This observation was so far justified by Mr. Hoop- 
driver that, after spending the morning tortuously 
avoiding the other man in brown and the Young 
Lady in Grey, he spent a considerable part of the 
afternoon in thinking about the Young Lady in Grey, 
and contemplating in an optimistic spirit the possibili- 
ties of seeing her again. Memory and imagination 
played round her, so that his course was largely deter- 
mined by the windings of the road he traversed. Of 
one general proposition he was absolutely convinced. 
“ There’s something Juicy wrong with ’em,” said he — 
once even aloud. But what it was he could not imag- 
ine. He recapitulated the facts. “Miss Beaumont” 
— brother and sister — and the stoppage to quarrel 
and weep — it was perplexing material for a young 
man of small experience. There was no exertion he 
78 


The Wheels of Chance 


79 


hated so much as inference, and after a time he gave 
up any attempt to get at the realities of the case, and 
let his imagination go free. Should he ever see her 
again? Suppose he did — with that other chap not 
about. The vision he found pleasantest was an en- 
counter with her, an unexpected encounter at the 
annual Dancing Class ‘ Do ’ at the Putney Assembly 
Rooms. Somehow they would drift together, and he 
would dance with her again and again. It was a 
pleasant vision, for you must understand that Mr. 
Hoopdriver danced uncommonly well. Or again, in 
the shop, a sudden radiance in the doorway, and 
she is bowed towards the Manchester counter. And 
then to lean over that counter and murmur, seemingly 
apropos of the goods under discussion, “I have not for- 
gotten that morning on the Portsmouth road,” and 
lower, “ I never shall forget.” 

At Northchapel Mr. Hoopdriver consulted his map 
and took counsel and weighed his course of action. 
Petworth seemed a possible resting-place, or Pullbor- 
ough ; Midhurst seemed too near, and any place over 
the Downs beyond, too far, and so he meandered 
towards Petworth, posing himself perpetually and 
loitering, gathering wild flowers and wondering why 
they had no names — for he had never heard of any 
— dropping them furtively at the sight of a stranger, 
and generally 4 mucking about.’ There were purple 


8o 


The Wheels of Chance 


vetches in the hedges, meadowsweet, honeysuckle, 
belated brambles — but the dog-roses had already 
gone ; there were greennand red blackberries, stella- 
rias, and dandelions, and in another place white dead 
nettles, traveller’s-joy, clinging bedstraw, grasses 
flowering, white campions, and ragged robins. One 
cornfield was glorious with poppies, bright scarlet and 
purple white, and the corn blue-bottles were begin- 
ning. In the lanes the trees met overhead, and the 
wisps of hay still hung to the straggling hedges. In 
one of the main roads he steered a perilous passage 
through a dozen surly dun oxen. Here and there 
were little cottages, and picturesque beer-houses with 
the vivid brewers’ boards of blue and scarlet, and once 
a broad green and a church, and an expanse of some 
hundred houses or so. Then he came to a pebbly 
rivulet that emerged between clumps of sedge loose- 
strife and forget-me-nots under an arch of trees, and 
rippled across the road, and there he dismounted, 
longing to take off shoes and stockings — those stylish 
chequered stockings were now all dimmed with dust 
— and paddle his lean legs in the chuckling cheerful 
water. But instead he sat in a manly attitude, smok- 
ing a cigarette, for fear lest the Young Lady in Grey 
should come glittering round the corner. For the 
flavour of the Young Lady in Grey was present 
through it all, mixing with the flowers and all the 


The Wheels of Chance 


Si 


delight of it, a touch that made this second day quite 
different from the first, an undertone of expectation, 
anxiety, and something like regret that would not be 
ignored. 

It was only late in the long evening that, quite 
abruptly, he began to repent, vividly and decidedly, 
having fled these two people. He was getting hun- 
gry, and that has a curious effect upon the emotional 
colouring of our minds. The man was a sinister 
brute, Hoopdriver saw in a flash of inspiration, and 
the girl — she was in some serious trouble. And he 
who might have helped her had taken his first impulse 
as decisive — and bolted. This new view of it de- 
pressed him dreadfully. What might not be happen- 
ing to her now? He thought again of her tears. 
Surely it was merely his duty, seeing the trouble 
afoot, to keep his eye upon it. 

He began riding fast to get quit of such self-re- 
proaches. He found himself in a tortuous tangle of 
roads, and as the dusk was coming on, emerged, not 
at Petworth but at Easebourne, a mile from Mid- 
hurst. “ I’m getting hungry,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, 
inquiring of a gamekeeper in Easebourne village. 
“ Midhurst a mile, and Petworth five ! — Thanks, 
I’ll take Midhurst.” 

He came into Midhurst by the bridge at the water- 
mill, and up the North Street, and a little shop flour- 


G 


82 


The Wheels of Chance 


ishing cheerfully, the cheerful sign of a teapot, and 
exhibiting a brilliant array of tobaccos, sweets, and 
children’s toys in the window, struck his fancy. A 
neat, bright-eyed little old lady made him welcome, 
and he was presently supping sumptuously on sausages 
and tea, with a visitors’ book full of the most humor- 
ous and flatteringre marks about the little old lady, 
in verse and prose, propped up against his teapot 
as he ate. Regular good some of the jokes were, and 
rhymes that read well even with your mouth full of 
sausage. Mr. Hoopdriver formed a vague idea of 
drawing “something” — for his judgment on the 
little old lady was already formed. He pictured the 
little old lady discovering it afterwards — “My gra- 
cious ! One of them Punch men,” she would say. 
The room had a curtained recess and a chest of 
drawers, for presently it was to be his bedroom, and 
the day part of it was decorated with framed Odd- 
fellows’ certificates and gilt-backed books and por- 
traits, and kettle -holders and all kinds of beautiful 
things made out of wool ; very comfortable it was 
indeed. The window was lead framed and diamond 
paned, and through it one saw the corner of the 
vicarage and a pleasant hill crest, in dusky silhouette 
against the twilight sky. And after the sausages had 
ceased to be, he lit a Red Herring cigarette and 
went swaggering out into the twilight street all shad- 


The Wheels of Chance 


83 


owy blue between its dark brick houses, was the street, 
with a bright yellow window here and there and 
splashes of green and red where the chemist’s Illumi- 
nation fell across the road. 


AN INTERLUDE 


XV 

And now let us for a space leave Mr. Hoopdriver 
in the dusky Midhurst North Street, and return to 
the two folks beside the railway bridge between 
Milford and Haslemere. She was a girl of eighteen, 
dark, fine featured, with bright eyes, and a rich, 
swift colour under her warm-tinted skin. Her eyes 
were all the brighter for the tears that swam in them. 
The man was thirty three or four, fair, with a longish 
nose overhanging his sandy flaxen moustache, pale 
blue eyes, and a head that struck out above and 
behind. He stood with his feet wide apart, his hand 
on his hip, in an attitude that was equally suggestive 
of defiance and aggression. They had watched 
Hoopdriver out of sight. The unexpected interrup- 
tion had stopped the flood of her tears. He tugged 
his abundant moustache and regarded her calmly. 
She stood with face averted, obstinately resolved not 
to speak first. “Your behaviour,” he said at last, 
“makes you conspicuous.” 

84 


The Wheels of Chance 


85 


She turned upon him, her eyes and cheeks glowing, 
her hands clenched. “You unspeakable cadf she 
said, and choked, stamped her little foot, and stood 
panting. 

“Unspeakable cad! My dear girl! Possible I 
am an unspeakable cad — who wouldn’t be? For 
you.” 

“ Dear girl ! How dare you speak to me like that? 
You — ” 

“I would do anything — ” 

“ Oh! ” 

There was a moment’s pause. She looked squarely 
into his face, her eyes alight with anger and con- 
tempt, and perhaps he flushed a little. He stroked 
his moustache, and by an effort maintained his 
cynical calm. “Let us be reasonable,” he said. 

' “ Reasonable ! That means all that is mean and 

cowardly and sensual in the world.” 

“ You have always had it so — in your generalising 
way. But let us look at the facts of the case — if 
that pleases you better.” 

With an impatient gesture she motioned him to 
go on. 

“Well,” he said, — you’ve eloped.” 

“I’ve left my home,” she corrected, with dignity. 
“ I left my home because it was unendurable. Be- 
cause that woman — ” 


86 The Wheels of Chance 

“Yes, yes. But the point is, you have eloped 
with me.” 

“You came with me. You pretended to be my 
friend. Promised to help me to earn a living by 
writing. It was you who said, why shouldn’t a man 
and woman be friends? And now you dare — you 
dare — ” 

“Really, Jessie, this pose of yours, this injured 
innocence — ” 

“I will go back. I forbid you — I forbid you to 
stand in the way — ” 

“One moment. I have always thought that my 
little pupil was at least clear-headed. You don’t 
know anything yet, you know. Listen to me for a 
moment.” 

“Haven’t I been listening? And you have only 
insulted me. You who dared only to talk of friend- 
ship, who scarcely dared hint at anything beyond.” 

“ But you took the hints, nevertheless. You knew. 
You knew . And you did not mind. Mind! You 
liked it. It was the fun of the whole thing for you. 
That I loved you, and could not speak to you. You 
played with it — ” 

“You have said all that before. Do you think 
that justifies you? ” 

“That isn’t all. I made up my mind — Well, 
to make the game more even. And so I suggested 


The Wheels of Chance 


87 


to you, and joined with you in this expedition of 
yours, invented a sister at Midhurst — I tell you, 
I haven't a sister! For one object — ” 

“Well?” 

“To compromise you.” 

She started. That was a new way of putting it. 
For half a minute neither spoke. Then she began 
half defiantly: “Much I am compromised. Of 
course — I have made a fool of myself — ” 

“ My dear girl, you are still on the sunny side of 
eighteen, and you know very little of this world. 
Less than you think. But you will learn. Before 
you write all those novels we have talked about, you 
will have to learn. And that’s one point — ” He 
hesitated. “ You started and blushed when the man 
at breakfast called you Ma’am. You thought it a 
funny mistake, but you did not say anything because 
he was young and nervous — and besides, the thought 
of being my wife offended your modesty. You didn’t 
care to notice it. But — -you see; I gave your name 
as Mrs. Beaumont.” He looked almost apologetic, 
in spite of his cynical pose. “ Mrs. Beaumont,” he 
repeated, pulling his flaxen moustache and watching 
the effect. 

She looked into his eyes speechless. “ I am learn- 
ing fast,” she said, slowly, at last. 

He thought the time had come for an emotional 


88 


The Wheels of Chance 


attack. “Jessie,” he said, with a sudden change of 
voice, “ I know all this is mean, is villanous. But 
do you think that I have done all this scheming, all 
this subterfuge, for- any other object — ” 

She did not seem to listen to his words. “ I shall 
ride home,” she said abruptly. 

“To her?” 

She winced. 

“Just think,” said he, “what she could say to you 
after this.” 

“Anyhow, I shall leave you now.” 

“Yes? And go — ” 

“Go somewhere to earn my living, to be a free 
woman, to live without conventionality — ” 

“My dear girl, do let us be cynical. You haven’t 
money and you haven’t credit. No one would take 
you in. It’s one of two things: go back to your 
stepmother, or — trust to me.” 

“How can I?” 

“Then you must go back to her.” He paused, 
momentariy, to let this consideration have its proper 
weight. “Jessie, I did not mean to say the things I 
did. Upon my honour, I lost my head when I spoke 
so. If you will, forgive me. I am a man. I could 
not help myself. Forgive me, and I promise you — ” 

“ How can I trust you? ” 

“Try me. I can assure you — ” 


The Wheels of Chance 


89 


She regarded his distrustfully. 

“At any rate, ride on with me now. Surely we 
have been in the shadow of this horrible bridge long 
enough.” 

“Oh! let me think,” she said, half turning from 
him and pressing her hand to her brow. 

11 Think l Look here, Jessie. It is ten o’clock. 
Shall we call a truce until one?” 

She hesitated, demanded a definition of the truce, 
and at last agreed. 

They mounted, and rode on in silence, through 
the sunlight and the heather. Both were extremely 
uncomfortable and disappointed. She was pale, 
divided between fear and anger. She perceived she 
was in a scrape, and tried in vain to think of a way 
of escape. Only one tangible thing would keep in 
her mind, try as she would to ignore it. That was 
the quite irrelevant fact that his head was singularly 
like an albino cocoanut. He, too, felt thwarted. 
He felt that this romantic business of seduction was, 
after all, unexpectedly tame. But this was only the 
beginning. At any rate, every day she spent with 
him was a day gained. Perhaps things looked worse 
than they were; that was some consolation. 


OF THE ARTIFICIAL IN MAN, AND OF 
THE ZEITGEIST 


XVI 

You have seen these two young people — Bechamel, 
by-the-bye, is the man’s name, and the girl’s is Jessie 
Milward — from the outside; you have heard them 
talking ; they ride now side by side (but not too close 
together, and in an uneasy silence) towards Hasle- 
mere; and this chapter will concern itself with those 
curious little council chambers inside their skulls, 
where their motives are in session and their acts are 
considered and passed. 

But first a word concerning wigs and false teeth. 
Some jester, enlarging upon the increase of bald 
heads and purblind people, has deduced a wonderful 
future for the children of men. Man, he said, was 
nowadays a hairless creature by forty or fifty, and 
for hair we gave him a wig; shrivelled, and we 
padded him; toothless, and lo! false teeth set in 
gold. Did he lose a limb, and a fine, new, artificial 
one was at his disposal; get indigestion, and to hand 
90 


The Wheels of Chance 


91 


was artificial digestive fluid or bile or pancreatine, as 
the case might be. Complexions, too, were replace- 
able, spectacles superseded an inefficient eye-lens, 
and imperceptible false diaphragms were thrust into 
the failing ear. So he went over our anatomies, 
until, at last, he had conjured up a weird thing of 
shreds and patches, a simulacrum, an artificial body 
of a man, with but a doubtful germ of living flesh 
lurking somewhere in his recesses. To that, he 
held, we were coming. 

Now, how far such a substitution of the body is 
possible need not concern us now. But the devil, 
speaking by the lips of Mr. Rudyard Kipling, hath 
it that in the case of one Tomlinson, the thing, so 
far as the soul is concerned, has already been accom- 
plished. Time was when men had simple souls, 
desires as natural as their eyes, a little reasonable 
philanthropy, a little reasonable philoprogenitive- 
ness, hunger, and a taste for good living, a decent, 
personal vanity, a healthy, satisfying pugnacity, and 
so forth. But now we are taught and disciplined for 
years and years, and thereafter we read and read for 
all the time some strenuous, nerve-destroying busi- 
ness permits. Pedagogic hypnotists, pulpit and 
platform hypnotists, book-writing hypnotists, news- 
paper-writing hypnotists, are at us all. This sugar 
you are eating, they tell us, is ink, and forthwith we 


92 


The Wheels of Chance 


reject it with infinite disgust. This black draught 
of unrequited toil is True Happiness, and down it 
goes with every symptom of pleasure. This Ibsen, 
they say, is dull past believing, and we yawn and 
stretch beyond endurance. Pardon ! they interrupt, 
but this Ibsen is deep and delightful, and we vie 
with one another in an excess of entertainment. 
And when we open the heads of these two young 
people, we find, not a straightforward motive on the 
surface anywhere; we find, indeed, not a soul so 
much as an oversoul, a Zeitgeist, a congestion of 
acquired ideas, a highway’s feast of fine, confused 
thinking. The girl is resolute to Live Her Own Life, 
a phrase you may have heard before, and the man 
has a pretty perverted ambition to be a cynical 
artistic person of the very calmest description. He 
is hoping for the awakening of Passion in her, among 
other things. He knows Passion ought to awaken, 
from the text-books he has studied. He knows she 
admires his genius, but he is unaware that she does 
not admire his head. He is quite a distinguished 
art critic in London, and he met her at that cele- 
brated lady novelist’s, her stepmother, and here you 
have them well embarked upon the Adventure. Both 
are in the first stage of repentance, which consists, 
as you have probably found for yourself, in setting 
your teeth hard and saying, “ I will go on.” 


The Wheels of Chance 


93 


Things, you see, have jarred a little, and they ride 
on their way together with a certain aloofness of 
manner that promises ill for the orthodox develop- 
ment of the Adventure. He perceives he was too 
precipitate. But he feels his honour is involved, 
and meditates the development of a new attack. 
And anyhow, should any literary clubman chance 
upon him, things look very much worse than they 
are. That, at least, is some consolation. 


THE ENCOUNTER AT MIDHURST 


XVII 

We left Mr. Hoopdriver at the door of the little 
tea, toy, and tobacco shop. You must not think that 
a strain is put on coincidence when I tell you that 
next cloor to Mrs. Wardor’s — that was the name of 
the bright-eyed, little old lady with whom Mr. Hoop- 
driver had stopped — is the Angel Hotel, and in the 
Angel Hotel, on the night that Mr. Hoopdriver 
reached Midhurst, were ‘Mr. 4 and ‘Miss’ Beau- 
mont, our Bechameland Jessie Milward. Indeed, 
it was a highly probable thing ; for if one goes 
through Guildford, the choice of southward roads is 
limited; you may go by Petersfield to Portsmouth, 
or by Midhurst to Chickester, in addition to which 
highways there is nothing for it but minor roadways 
to Petworth or Pulborough, and cross-cuts Brighton- 
ward. And coming to Midhurst from the north, the 
Angel ’s[ entrance lies yawning to engulf your highly 
respectable cyclists, while Mrs. Wardor’s genial tea- 
pot is equally attractive to those who weigh their 
94 


The Wheels of Chance 


95 


means in little scales. But to people unfamiliar 
with the Sussex roads — and such were the three per- 
sons of this story — the convergence did not appear to 
be so inevitable. 

Bechamel, tightening his chain in the Angel yard 
after dinner, was the first to be aware of their 
reunion. He saw Hoopdriver walk slowly across 
the gateway, his head enhaloed in cigarette smoke, 
and pass out of sight up the street. Incontinently 
a mass of cloudy uneasiness, that had been partly 
dispelled during the day, reappeared and concen- 
trated rapidly into definite suspicion. He put his 
screw hammer into his pocket and walked through 
the archway into the street, to settle the business 
forthwith, for he prided himself on his decision. 
Hoopdriver was merely promenading, and they met 
face to face. 

At the sight of his adversary, something between 
disgust and laughter seized Mr. Hoopdriver and for 
a moment destroyed his animosity. “’Ere we are 
again ! ” he said, laughing insincerely in a sudden 
outbreak at the perversity of chance. 

The other man in brown stopped short in Mr. 
Hoopdriver’ s way, staring. Then his face assumed 
an expression of dangerous civility. “Is it any 
information to you,” he said, with immense polite- 
ness, “when I remark that you are following us?” 


9 6 


The Wheels of Chance 


Mr. Hoopdriver, for some occult reason, resisted 
his characteristic impulse to apologise. He wanted 
to annoy the other man in brown, and a sentence 
that had come into his head in a previous rehearsal 
cropped up appropriately. “Since when,” said Mr. 
Hoopdriver, catching his breath yet bringing it out 
vaiantly, nevertheless, — “ since when ’ave you pur- 
chased the county of Sussex?” 

“May I point out,” said the other man in brown, 
“that I object — we object not only to your prox- 
imity to us. To be frank — you appear to be follow- 
ing us — with an object.” 

“You can always,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, “turn 
round if you don’t like it, and go back the way you 
came.” 

“ Oh-o ! ” said the other man in brown. “ That' s 
it! I thought as much.” 

“Did you?” said Mr. Hoopdriver, quite at sea, 
but rising pluckily to the unknown occasion. What 
was the man driving at? 

“I see,” said the other man. “I see. I half 
suspected — ” His manner changed abruptly to a 
quality suspiciously friendly. “Yes — a word with 
you. You will, I hope, give me ten minutes.” 

Wonderful things were dawning on Mr. Hoop- 
driver. What did the other man take him for? 
Here at last was reality! He hesitated. Then he 


The Wheels of Chance 


97 


thought of an admirable phrase. “You ’ave some 
communication — ” 

“ We’ll call it a communication,” said the other man. 

“I can spare you the ten minutes,” said Mr. 
Hoopdriver, with dignity. 

“This way, then,” said the other man in brown, and 
they walked slowly down the North Street towards 
the Grammar School. There was, perhaps, thirty 
seconds’ silence. The other man stroked his mous- 
tache nervously. Mr. Hoopdriver’ s dramatic in- 
stincts were now fully awake. He did not quite 
understand in what rdle he was cast, but it was 
evidently something dark and mysterious. Doctor 
Conan Doyle, Victor Hugo, and Alexander Dumas 
were well within Mr. Hoopdriver ’s range of reading, 
and he had not read them for nothing. 

“I will be perfectly frank with you,” said the 
other man in brown. 

“Frankness is always the best course,” said Mr. 
Hoopdriver. 

“Well, then — who the devil set you on this busi- 
ness?” 

“Set me on this business?” 

“Don’t pretend to be stupid. Who’s your 
employer? Who engaged you for this job? ” 

“Well,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, confused. “No — 
I can’t say.” 



H 


98 


The Wheels of Chance 


“Quite sure?” The other man in brown glanced 
meaningly down at his hand, and Mr. Hoopdriver, 
following him mechanically, saw a yellow milled 
edge glittering in the twilight. Now your shop 
assistant is just «above the tip-receiving class, and 
only just above it — so that he is acutely sensitive 
on the point. 

Mr. Hoopdriver flushed hotly, and his eyes were 
angry as he met those of the other man in brown. 
“Stow it! ” said Mr. Hoopdriver, stopping and facing 
the tempter. 

“What! ” said the other man in brown, surprised. 
“ Eigh? ” And so saying he stowed it in his breeches 
pocket. 

“D’yer think I’m to be bribed?” said Mr. Hoop- 
driver, whose imagination was rapidly expanding 
the situation. “By Gosh! I’d follow you now — ” 

“My dear sir,” said the other man in brown, “I 
beg your pardon. I misunderstood you. I really 
beg your pardon. Let us walk on. In your pro- 
fession — ” 

“What have you got to say against my profes- 
sion? ” 

“Well, really, you know. There are detectives of 
an inferior description — watchers. The whole class. 
Private Inquriy — I did not realise — I really trust 
you will overlook what was, after all — you must 


The Wheels of Chance 


99 


admit — a natural indiscretion. Men of honour are 
not so common in the world — in any profession.” 

It was lucky for Mr. Hoopdriver that in Midhurst 
they do not light the lamps in the summer time, or 
the one they were passing had betrayed him. As it 
was, he had to snatch suddenly at his moustache and 
tug fiercely at it, to conceal the furious tumult of 
exultation, the passion of laughter, that came boiling 
up. Detective ! Even in the shadow Bechamel saw 
that a laugh was stifled, but he put it down to the 
fact that the phrase “men of honour” amused his 
interlocutor. “ He’ll come round yet,” said Bechamel 
to himself. “He’s simply holding out for a fiver.” 
He coughed. 

“I don’t see that it hurts you to tell me who your 
employer is.” 

“Don’t you? Ido.” 

“ Prompt,” said Bechamel, appreciatively. “ Now 
here’s the thing I want to put to you — the kernel of 
the whole business. You need not answer if you 
don’t want to. There’s no harm done in my telling 
you what I want to know. Are you employed to 
watch me — or Miss Milward? ” 

“I’m not the leaky sort,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, 
keeping the secret he did not know with immense 
enjoyment. Miss Milward ! That was her name. 
Perhaps he’d tell some more. “It’s no good 


ioo The Wheels of Chance 

pumping. Is that all you’re after?” said Mr. 
Hoopdriver. 

Bechamel respected himself for his diplomatic 
gifts. He tried to catch a remark by throwing out 
a confidence. “ I take it there are two people con- 
cerned in watching this affair.” 

“Who’s the other? ” said Mr. Hoopdriver, calmly, 
but controlling with enormous internal tension his 
self-appreciation. “Who’s the other?” was really 
brilliant, he thought. 

“There’s my wife and her stepmother.” 

“And you want to know which it is? ” 

“Yes,” said Bechamel. 

“Well — arst ’em! said Mr. Hoopdriver, his 
exultation getting the better of him, and with a 
pretty consciousness of repartee. “Arst ’em both.” 

Bechamel turned impatiently. Then he made a 
last effort. “I’d give a five-pound note to know 
just the precise state of affairs,” he said. 

“I told you to stow that,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, 
in a threatening tone. And added with perfect truth 
and a magnificent mystery, “You don’t quite under- 
stand who you’re dealing with. But you will ! ” 
He spoke with such conviction that he half believed 
that that detective office of his in London — Baker 
Street, in fact — really existed. 

With that the interview terminated. Bechamel 


The Wheels of Chance ioi 

went back to the Angel, perturbed. “ Hang detec- 
tives!” It wasn’t the kind of thing he had antici- 
pated at all. Hoopdriver, with round eyes and a 
wondering smile, walked down to where the mill 
waters glittered in the moonlight, and after medi- 
tating over the parapet of the bridge for a space, 
with occasional murmurs of, “ Private Inquiry ” and 
the like, returned, with mystery even in his paces, 
towards the town. 


XVIII 


That glee which finds expression in raised eye- 
brows and long, low whistling noises was upon Mr. 
Hoopdriver. For a space he forgot the tears of the 
Young Lady in Grey. Here was a new game ! — and 
a real one. Mr. Hoopdriver as a Private Inquiry 
Agent, a Sherlock Holmes in fact, keeping these two 
people ‘ under observation.’ He walked slowly back 
from the bridge until he was opposite the Angel, and 
stood for ten minutes, perhaps, contemplating that 
establishment and enjoying all the strange sensations 
of being this wonderful, this mysterious and terrible 
thing. Everything fell into place in his scheme. He 
had, of course, by a kind of instinct, assumed the 
disguise of a cyclist, picked up the first old crock he 
came across as a means of pursuit. ‘ No expense was 
to be spared.’ 

Then he tried to understand what it was in particu- 
lar that he was observing. “ My wife ” — “ Her step- 
mother ! ” Then he remembered her swimming eyes. 
Abruptly came a wave of anger that surprised him, 
washed away the detective superstructure, and left 
him plain Mr. Hoopdriver. This man in brown, with 


102 


The Wheels of Chance 


103 


his confident manner, and his proffered half sovereign 
(damn him !) was up to no good, else why should he 
object to being watched? He was married ! She 
was not his sister. He began to understand. A hor- 
rible suspicion of the state of affairs came into Mr. 
Hoopdriver’s head. Surely it had not come to that . 
He was a detective ! — he would find out. How 
was it to bedone? He began to submit sketches on 
approval to himself. It required an effort before he 
could walk into the Angel bar. “A lemonade and 
bitter, please,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

He cleared his throat. “ Are Mr. and Mrs. Bow- 
long stopping here?” 

“ What, a gentleman and a young lady — on 
bicycles? ” 

“ Fairly young — a married couple.” 

“ No,” said the barmaid, a talkative person of 
ample dimensions. “There’s no married couples 
stopping here. But there’s a Mr. and Mrs. Beau- 
montT She spelt it for precision. “ Sure you’ve got 
the name right, young man ? ” 

“ Quite,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

“ Beaumont there is, but no one of the name of — 
What was the name you gave? ” 

“ Bowlong,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

“ No, there ain’t no Bowlong,” said the barmaid, 
taking up a glasscloth and a drying tumbler and 


104 The nnheels of Chance 

beginning to polish the latter. “ First off, I thought 
you might be asking for Beaumont — the names being 
similar. Were you expecting them on bicycles? ” 

“ Yes — they said they might be in Midhurst 
to-night.” 

“ P’raps they’ll come presently. Beaumont’s here, 
but no Bowlong. Sure that Beaumont ain’t the 
name? ” 

“ Certain,”- said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

“ It’s curious the names being so alike. I thought 
p’raps — ” 

And so they conversed at some length, Mr. Hoop- 
driver delighted to find his horrible suspicion dis- 
posed of. The barmaid having listened awhile at 
the staircase volunteered some particulars of the 
young couple upstairs. Her modesty was much 
impressed by the young lady’s costume, so she in- 
timated, and Mr. Hoopdriver whispered the badinage 
natural to the occasion, at which she was coquettishly 
shocked. “There’ll be no knowing which is which, 
in a year or two,” said the barmaid. “And her 
manner too ! She got off her machine and give it 
’im to stick up against the kerb, and in she marched. 
‘ I and my brother,’ says she, ‘ want to stop here 
to-night. My brother doesn’t mind what kind of 
room ’e ’as, but I want a room with a good view, if 
there’s one to be got,’ says she. He comes hurrying 


The Wheels of Chance 


05 


in after and looks at her. ‘ I’ve settled the rooms,’ 
she says, and ’e says 4 damn ! ’ just like that. I can 
fancy my brother letting me boss the show like that.” 

“ I dessay you do,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, “ if the 
truth was known.” 

The barmaid looked down, smiled and shook her 
head, put down the tumbler, polished, and took up 
another that had been draining, and shook the drops 
of water into her little zinc sink. 

“ She’ll be a nice little lot to marry,” said the bar- 
maid. “She’ll be wearing the — well, b-dashes, as 
the sayin’ is. I can’t think what girls is cornin’ to.” 

This depreciation of the Young Lady in Grey was 
hardly to- Hoopdriver’s taste. 

“ Fashion,” said he, taking up his change. “ Fashion 
is all the go with you ladies — and always was. You’ll 
be wearing ’em yourself before a couple of years is out.’’ 

“ Nice they’d look on my figger,” said the barmaid, 
with a titter. “No — T ain’t one of your fashionable 
sort. Gracious no ! I shouldn’t feel as if I’d any- 
thing on me, not more than if I’d forgot — Well, 
there ! I’m talking.” She put down the glass 
abruptly. “ I dessay I’m old fashioned,” she said, 
and walked humming down the bar. 

“ Not you,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. He waited un- 
til he caught her eye, then with his native courtesy 
smiled, raised his cap, and wished her good evening. 


XIX 


Then Mr. Hoopdriver returned to the little room 
with the lead-framed windows where he had dined, 
and where the bed was now comfortably made, sat 
down on the box under the window, stared at the 
moon rising on the shining vicarage roof, and tried 
to collect his thoughts. How they whirled at first ! 
It was past ten, and most of Midhurst was tucked 
away in bed, some one up the street was learning the 
violin, at rare intervals a belated inhabitant hurried 
home and woke the echoes, and a corncrake kept up 
a busy churning in the vicarage garden. The sky was 
deep blue, with a still luminous afterglow along the 
black edge of the hill, and the white moon overhead, 
save for a couple of yellow stars, had the sky to her- 
self. 

At first his thoughis were kinetic, of deeds and not 
relationships. There was this malefactor, and his vic- 
tim, and it had fallen on Mr. Hoopdriver to take a hand 
in the game. He was married. Did she know he was 
married? Never for a moment did a thought of evil 
concerning her cross Hoopdriver’s mind. Simple- 
106 


The Wheels of Chance 107 

minded people see questions of morals so much better 
than superior persons — who have read and thought 
themselves complex to impotence. He had heard her 
voice, seen the frank light in her eyes, and she had 
been weeping — that sufficed. The rights of the case 
he hadn’t properly grasped. But he would. And that 
smirking — well, swine was the mildest for him. He 
recalled the exceedingly unpleasant incident of the 
railway bridge. “ Thin we won’t detain yer, thenks,” 
said Mr. Hoopdriver, aloud, in a strange, unnatural 
contemptible voice, supposed to represent that of 
Bechamel. “ Oh the beggar ! I’ll be level with him 
yet. He’s afraid of us detectives — that I’ll swear." 
(If Mrs. Wardor should chance to be on the other 
side of the door within earshot, well and good.) 

For a space he meditated chastisements and re- 
venges, physical impossibilities for the most part, 
Bechamel staggering headlong from the impact of 
Mr. Hoopdriver’s large but, to tell the truth, ill sup- 
ported fist, Bechamel’s five feet nine of height lifted 
from the ground and quivering under a vigorously 
applied horsewhip. So pleasant was such dreaming, 
that Mr. Hoopdriver’s peaked face under the moon- 
light was transfigured. One might have paired him 
with that well-known and universally admired triumph, 

1 The Soul’s Awakening,’ so sweet was his ecstacy. 
And presently with his thirst for revenge glutted by 


108 The Wheels of Chance 

six or seven violent assaults, a duel and two vigorous 
murders, his mind came round to the Young Lady in 
Grey again. 

She was a plucky one too. He went over the inci- 
dent the barmaid at the Angel had described to him. 
His thoughts ceased to be a torrent, smoothed down 
to a mirror in which she was reflected with infinite 
clearness and detail. He’d never met anything like 
her before. Fancy that bolster of a barmaid being 
dressed in that way ! He whuffed a contemptuous 
laugh. He compared her colour, her vigour, her voice, 
with the Young Ladies in Business with whom his lot 
had been cast. Even in tears she was beautiful, more 
beautiful indeed to him, for it made her seem softer 
and weaker, more accessible. And such weeping as 
he had seen before had been so much a matter of 
damp white faces, red noses, and hair coming out of 
curl. Your draper’s assistant becomes something of a 
judge of weeping, because weeping is the custom of all 
Young Ladies in Business, when for any reason their ser- 
vices are dispensed with. She could weep — and (by 
Gosh !) she could smile. He knew that, and reverting 
to acting abruptly, he smiled confidentially at the 
puckered pallor of the moon. 

It is difficult to say how long Mr. Hoopdriver’s pen- 
siveness lasted. It seemed a long time before his 
thoughts of action returned. Then he remembered he 


The Wheels of Chance 


109 


was a ‘ watcher’ ; that to-morrow he must be busy. It 
would be in a character to make notes, and he pulled 
out his little note-book. With that in hand he fell a- 
thinking again. Would that chap tell her the ’tecks 
were after them ? If so, would she be as anxious to 
get away as he was? He must be on the alert. If 
possible he must speak to her. Just a significant 
word, “ Your friend — trust me ! ” — It occurred to 
him that to-morrow these fugitives might rise early to 
escape. At that he thought of the time and found it 
was half-past eleven. “ Lord ! ” said he, “ I must see 
that I wake.” He yawned and rose. The blind was 
up, and he pulled back the little chintz curtains to let 
the sunlight strike across to the bed, hung his watch 
within good view of his pillow, on a nail that supported 
a kettle-holder, and sat down on his bed to undress. 
He lay awake for a little while thinking of the won* 
derful possibilities of the morrow, and thence he 
passed gloriously into the wonderland of dreams. 


THE PURSUIT 
XX 

' And now to tell of Mr. Hoopdriver, rising with the 
sun, vigilant, active, wonderful, the practicable half of 
the lead-framed window stuck open, ears alert, an eye 
flickering incessantly in the corner panes, in oblique 
glances at the Angel front. Mrs. Wardor wanted him 
to have his breakfast downstairs in her kitchen, but 
that would have meant abandoning the watch, and he 
held out strongly. The bicycle, cap-a-pie, occupied, 
under protest, a strategic position in the shop. He 
was expectant by six in the morning. By nine hor- 
rible fears oppressed him that his quest had escaped 
him, and he had to reconnoitre the Angel yard in 
order to satisfy himself. There he found the ostler 
(How are the mighty fallen in these decedent days !) 
brushing down the bicycles of the chase, and he re- 
turned relieved to Mrs. Wardor’s premises. And 
about ten they emerged, and rode quietly up the 
North Street. He watched them until they turned 
the corner of the post office, and then out into the 


i io 


The uuheels of Chance 1 1 1 

road and up after them in fine style ! They went by 
the engine-house where the old stocks and the whip- 
ping posts are, and on to the Chichester road, and 
he followed gallantly. So this great chase began. 

They did not look round, and he kept them just 
within sight, getting down if he chanced to draw 
closely upon them round a corner. By riding vigor- 
ously he kept quite conveniently near them, for they 
made but little hurry. He grew hot indeed, and his 
knees were a little stiff to begin with, but that was all. 
There was little danger of losing them/ for a thin 
chalky dust lay upon the road, and the track of her 
tire was milled like a shilling, and his was a chequ- 
ered ribbon along the way. So they rode by Cob- 
den’s monument and through the prettiest of villages, 
until at last the downs rose steeply ahead. There 
they stopped awhile at the only inn in the place, and 
Mr. Hoopdriver took up a position which commanded 
the inn door, and mopped his face and thirsted and 
smoked a Red Herring cigarette. They remained in 
the inn for some time. A number of chubby inno- 
cents returning home from school, stopped and 
formed a line in front of him, and watched him 
quietly but firmly for the space of ten minutes or so. 
“ Go away,” said he, and they only seemed quietly 
interested. He asked them all their names then, and 
they answered indistinct murmurs. He gave it up at 


1 1 2 The Wheels of Chance 

last and became passive on his gate, and so at length 
they tired of him. 

The couple under observation occupied the inn so 
long that Mr. Hoopdriver at the thought of their pos- 
sible occupation hungered as well as thirsted. Clearly 
they were lunching. It was a cloudless day, and the 
sun at the meridian beat down upon the top of Mr. 
Hoopdriver’s head, a shower bath of sunshine, a huge 
jet of hot light. It made his head swim. At last 
they emerged, and the other man in brown looked 
back and saw him. They rode on to the foot of the 
down, and dismounting began to push tediously up 
that long nearly vertical ascent of blinding white road, 
Mr. Hoopdriver hesitated. It might take them 
twenty minutes to mount that. Beyond was empty 
downland perhaps for miles. He decided to return 
to the inn and snatch a hasty meal. 

At the inn they gave him biscuits and cheese and a 
misleading pewter measure of sturdy ale, pleasant 
under the palate, cool in the throat, but leaden in the 
legs, of a hot afternoon. He felt a man of substance 
as he emerged in the blinding sunshine, but even by 
the foot of the down the sun was insisting again that 
his skull was too small for his brains. The hill had 
gone steeper, the chalky road blazed like a magne- 
sium light, and his front wheel began an apparently 
incurable squeaking. He felt as a man from Mars 


The Wheels of Chance 


13 


would feel if he were suddenly transferred to this 
planet, about three times as heavy as he was wont to 
feel. The two little black figures had vanished over 
the forehead of the hill. “ The tracks’ll be all 
right,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

That was a comforting reflection. It not only jus- 
tified a slow progress up the hill, but at the crest a 
sprawl on the turf beside the road, to contemplate the 
Weald from the south. In a matter of two days he 
had crossed that spacious valley, with its frozen surge 
of green hills, its little villages and townships here and 
there, its copses and cornfields, its ponds and streams 
like jewelery of diamonds and silver glittering in the 
sun. The North Downs were hidden, far away be- 
yond the Wealden Heights. Down below was the 
little village of Cocking, and halfway up the hill, a mile 
perhaps to the right, hung a flock of sheep grazing 
together. Overhead an anxious peewit circled against 
the blue, and every now and then emitted its feeble 
cry. Up here the heat was tempered by a pleasant 
breeze. Mr. Hoopdriver was possessed by unreason- 
able contentment ; he lit himself a cigarette and 
lounged more comfortably. Surely the Sussex ale is 
made of the waters of Lethe, of poppies and pleasant 
dreams. Drowsiness coiled insidiously about him. 

He awoke with a guilty start, to find himself sprawl- 
ing prone on the turf with his cap over one eye. He 


1 14 The Wheels of Chance 

sat up, rubbed his eyes, and realised that he had 
slept. His head was still a trifle heavy. And the 
chase? He jumped to his feet and stooped to pick 
up his overturned machine. He whipped out his 
watch and saw that it was past two o’clock. “ Lord 
love us, fancy that ! — But the tracks’ll be all right,” 
said Mr. Hoopdriver, wheeling his machine back to 
the chalky road. “ I must scorch till I overtake 
them.” 

He mounted and rode as rapidly as the heat and a 
lingering lassitude permitted. Now and then he had 
to dismount to examine the surface where the road 
forked. He enjoyed that rather. “ Trackin’,” he said 
aloud, and decided in the privacy of his own mind 
that he had a wonderful instinct for ‘ spoor.’ So he 
came past Goodwood station and Lavant, and ap- 
proached Chichester towards four o’clock. And then 
came a terrible thing. In places the road became 
hard, in places were the crowded indentations of a 
recent flock of sheep, and at last in the throat of the 
town cobbles and the stony streets branching east, 
west, north, and south, at a stone cross under the 
shadow of the cathedral the tracks vanished. “O 
Cricky !” said Mr. Hoopdriver, dismounting in dismay 
and standing agape. “Dropped anything?” said an 
inhabitant at the kerb. “Yes,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, 
“ I’ve lost the spoor,” and walked upon his way, leav- 


The Wheels of Chance 1 1 5 

ing the inhabitant marvelling what part of a bicycle a 
spoor might be. Mr. Hoopdriver, abandoning track- 
ing, began asking people if they had seen a Young 
Lady in Grey on a bicycle. Six casual people hadn’t, 
and he began to feel the inquiry was conspicuous, and 
desisted. But what was to be done? 

Hoopdriver was hot, tired, and hungry, and full of 
the first gnawings of a monstrous remorse. He 
decided to get himself some tea and meat, and in the 
Royal George he meditated over the business in a 
melancholy frame enough. Th*ey had passed out of his 
world — vanished, and all his wonderful dreams of 
some vague, crucial interference collapsed like a castle 
of cards. What a fool he had been not to stick to 
them like a leech ! He might have thought ! But 
there ! — what was the good of that sort of thing now? 
He thought of her tears, of her helplessness, of the 
bearing of the other man in brown, and his wrath and 
disappointment surged higher. “ What can I do ? ” 
said Mr. Hoopdriver aloud, bringing his fist down 
beside the teapot. 

What would Sherlock Holmes have done ? Perhaps, 
after all, there might be such things as clues in the 
world, albeit the age of miracles was past. But to 
look for a clue in this intricate network of cobbled 
streets, to examine every muddy interstice ! There 
was chance looking about, of course, and inquiry at 


1 1 6 The Wheels of Chance 

the various inns. Upon that he began. But of course 
they might have ridden straight through and scarcely 
a soul have marked them. And then came a posi- 
tively brilliant ideas. “ ’Ow many ways are there out 
of Chichester? ” said Mr. Hoopdriver. It was really 
equal to Sherlock Holmes — that. “If they’ve made 
tracks, I shall find those tracks. If not — they’re in 
the town.” He was then in East Street, and he 
started at once to make the circuit of the place, dis- 
covering incidentally that Chichester is a walled city. 
In passing, he made inquiries at the Black Swan, the 
Crown, and the Red Lion Hotel. At six o’clock in 
the evening, he was walking downcast, intent, as one 
who had dropped money, along the road towards Bog- 
nor, kicking up the dust with his shoes and fretting 
with disappointed pugnacity. A thwarted, crest-fallen 
Hoopdriver it was, as you may well imagine. And 
then suddenly there jumped upon his attention — a 
broad line ribbed like a shilling, and close beside it 
one chequered, that ever and again split into two. 
“ Found ! ” said Mr. Hoopdriver and swung round on 
his heel at once, and back to the Royal George, 
helter skelter, for the bicycle they were minding for 
him. The ostler thought he was confoundedly impe- 
rious, considering his machine. * 


AT BOGNOR 


XXI 

That seductive gentleman, Bechamel, had been 
working up to a crisis. He had started upon this 
elopement in a vein of fine romance, immensely 
proud of his wickedness, and really as much in love 
as an artificial oversoul can be, with Jessie. But 
either she was the profoundest of coquettes or she 
had not the slightest element of Passion (with a large 
P) in her composition. It warred with all his ideas 
of himself and the feminine mind to think that under 
their flattering circumstances she really could be so 
vitally deficient. He found her persistent coolness, 
her more or less evident contempt for himself, exas- 
perating in the highest degree. He put it to himself 
that she was enough to provoke a saint, and tried to 
think that was piquant and enjoyable, but the blisters 
on his vanity asserted themselves. The fact is, he 
was, under this standing irritation, getting down to 
the natural man in himself for once, and the natural 
man in himself, in spite of Oxford and the 
117 


1 1 8 The Wheels of Chance 

Reviewers’ Club, was a Palaeolithic creature of 
simple tastes and violent methods. “I’ll be level 
with you yet,” ran like a plough through the soil of 
his thoughts. 

Then there was this infernal detective. He had 
told his wife he was going to Davos to see Carter. 
To that he had fancied she was reconciled, but how 
she would take this exploit was entirely problem- 
atical. She was a woman of peculiar moral views, 
and she measured marital infidelity largely by its 
proximity to herself. Out of her sight, and more 
particularly out of the sight of the other women of 
her set, vice of the recognised description was, per- 
haps, permissible to those contemptible weaklings, 
men, but this was Evil on the High Roads. She was 
bound to make a fuss, and these fusses invariably 
took the final form of a tightness of money for 
Bechamel. Albeit, and he felt it was heroic of him 
to resolve so, it was worth doing if it was to be 
done. His imagination worked on a kind of 
matronly Valkyrie, and the noise of pursuit and 
vengeance was in the air. The idyll still had the 
front of the stage. That accursed detective, it 
seemed, had been thrown off the scent, and that, at 
any rate, gave a night’s respite. But things must be 
brought to an issue forthwith. 

By eight o’clock in the evening, in a little dining- 


The Wheels of Chance 1 19 

room in the Vicuna Hotel, Bognor, the crisis had 
come, and Jessie, flushed and angry in the face and 
with her heart sinking, faced him again for her last 
struggle with him. He had tricked her this time, 
effectually, and luck had been on his side. She was 
booked as Mrs. Beaumont. Save for her refusal to 
enter their room, and her eccentricity of eating with 
unwashed hands, she had so far kept up the appear- 
ances of things before the waiter. But the dinner 
was grim enough. Now in turn she appealed to his 
better nature and made extravagant statements of her 
plans to fool him. 

He was white and vicious by this time, and his 
anger quivered through his pose of brilliant wicked- 
ness. 

“I will go to the station,” she said. “I will go 
back — ” 

“The last train for anywhere leaves at 7.42.” 

“ I will appeal to the police — ” 

“You don’t know them.” 

“I will tell these hotel people.” 

“They will turn you out of doors. You’re in such 
a thoroughly false position now. They don’t under- 
stand — unconventionality, down here.” 

She stamped her foot. “If I wander about the 
streets all night — ” she said. 

“You who have never been out alone after dusk? 


120 The Wheels of Chance 

Do you know what the streets of a charming little 
holiday resort are like — ” 

“ I don’t care,” she said. “ I can go to the clergy- 
man here.” 

“ He’s a charming man. Unmarried. And men are 
really more alike than you think. And anyhow — ” 

“Well?” 

“ How can you explain the last two nights to any- 
one now? The mischief is done, Jessie.” 

“You curf she said, and. suddenly put her hand 
to her breast. He thought she meant to faint, but 
she stood, with the colour gone from her face. 

“No,” he said. “I love you.” 

“ Love ! ” said she. 

“ Yes — love.” 

“There are ways yet,” she said, after a pause. 

“Not for you. You are too full of life and hope 
yet for, what is it? — not the dark arch nor the black 
flowing river. Don’t you think of it. You’ll only 
shirk it when the moment comes, and turn it all 
into comedy.” 

She turned round abruptly from him and stood 
looking out across the parade at the shining sea over 
which the afterglow of day fled before the rising 
moon. He maintained his attitude. The blinds 
were still up, for she had told the waiter not to draw 
them. There was silence for some moments. 


The Wheels of Chance 12 1 

At last he spoke in as persuasive a voice as he 
could summon. “Take it sensibly, Jessie. Why 
should we, who have so much in common, quarrel 
into melodrama? I swear I love you. You are all 
that is bright and desirable to me. I am* stronger 
than you, older ; man to your woman. To find you 
too — conventional ! ” 

She looked at him over her shoulder, and he 
noticed with a twinge of delight how her little chin 
came out beneath the curve of her cheek. 

“Man!” she said. “Man to my woman! Do 
men lie? Would a man use his five and thirty years’ 
experience to outwit a girl of seventeen? Man to 
my woman indeed ! That surely is the last insult ! ” 

“Your repartee is admirable, Jessie. I should say 
they do, though — all that and more also when their 
hearts were set on such a girl as yourself. For God’s 
sake drop this shrewishness ! Why should you be so 
— difficult to me? Here am I with my reputation, 
my career, at your feet. Look here, Jessie — on my 
honour, I will marry you — ” 

“God forbid,” she said, so promptly that she never 
learnt he had a wife, even then. It occuired to him 
then for the first time, in the flash of her retort, that 
she did not know he was married. 

“’Tis only a pre-nuptial settlement,” he said, 
following that hint. 


122 


The Wheels of Chance 


He paused. 

“You must be sensible. The thing’s your own 
doing. Come out on the beach now — the beach 
here is splendid, and the moon will soon be high.” 

“ I won't,” she said, stamping her foot. 

“Well, well — ” 

“ Oh ! leave me alone. Let me think — ” 

“Think,” he said, “if you want to. It’s your cry 
always. But you can’t save yourself by thinking, 
my dear girl. You can’t save yourself in any way 
now. If saving it is — this parsimony — ” 

“Oh, go-go.” 

“Very well. I will go. I will go and smoke a 
cigar. And think of you, dear. But do you think 
I should do all this if I did not care? ” 

“Go,” she whispered, without glancing round. 
She continued to stare out of the window. He 
stood looking at her for a moment, with a strange 
light in his eyes. He made a step towards her. “ I 
have you,” he said. “You are mine. Netted — 
caught. But mine.” He would have gone up to 
her and laid his hand upon her, but he did not dare 
to do that yet. “I have you in my hand,” he said. 
“ In my power. Do you hear — Power!” 

She remained impassive. He stared at her for 
half a minute, and then,, with a superb gesture that 
was lost upon her, went to the door. Surely the 


The Wheels of Chance 


123 


instinctive abasement of her sex before Strength was 
upon his side. He told himself that his battle was 
won. She heard the handle move and the catch 
click as the door closed behind him. 


XXII 


And now without in the twilight behold Mr. Hoop- 
driver, his cheeks hot, his eye bright! His brain is 
in a tumult. The nervous, obsequious Hoopdriver, 
to whom I introduced you some days since, has 
undergone a wonderful change. Ever since he lost 
that ‘spoor’ in Chichester, he has been tormented 
by the most horrible visions of the shameful insults 
that may be happening. The strangeness of the new 
surroundings has been working to strip off the habitual 
servile from him. Here was moonlight rising over 
the memory of a red sunset, dark shadows and glow- 
ing orange lamps, beauty somewhere mysteriously 
rapt away from him, tangible wrong in a brown .suit 
and an unpleasant face, flouting him. Mr. Hoop- 
driver for the time was in the world of Romance and 
Knight-errantry, divinely forgetful of his social posi- 
tion or hers, forgetting, too, for the time any of the 
wretched timidities that had tied him long since 
behind the counter in his proper place. He was 
angry and adventurous. It was all about him, this 
vivid drama he had fallen into, and it was eluding 
124 


The Wheels of Chance 125 

him. He was far too grimly in earnest to pick up 
that lost thread and make a play of it now. The 
man was living. He did not pose when he alighted 
at the coffee tavern even, nor when he made his hasty 
meal. 

As Bechamel crossed from the Vicuna toward the 
esplanade, Hoopdriver, disappointed and exasper- 
ated, came hurrying round the corner from the 
Temperance Hotel. At the* sight of Bechamel, his 
heart jumped, and the tension of his angry suspense 
exploded into, rather than gave place to, an excited 
activity of mind. They were at the Vicuna, and she 
was there now alone. It was the occasion he sought. 
But he would give Chance no chance against him. 
He went back round the corner, sat down on the 
seat, and watched Bechamel recede into the dimness 
up the esplanade, before he got up and walked into 
the hotel entrance. “A lady cyclist in grey,” he 
asked for, and followed boldly on the waiter’s heels. 
The door of the dining-room was opening before he 
felt a qualm. And then suddenly he was nearly 
minded to turn and run for it, and his features 
seemed to him to be convulsed. 

She turned with a start, and looked at him with 
something between terror and hope in her eyes. 

“Can I — have a few words — with you, alone?” 
said Mr. Hoopdriver, controlling his breath with 


126 


The Wheels of Chance 


difficulty. She hesitated, and then motioned the 
waiter to withdraw. 

Mr. Hoopdriver watched the door shut. He had 
intended to step out into the middle of the room, 
fold his arms and say, “You are in trouble. I am 
a Friend. Trust me.” Instead of which he stood 
panting and then spoke with sudden familiarity, 
hastily, guiltily: “Look here. I don’t know what 
the juice is up, but I think there’s something wrong. 
Excuse my intruding — if it isn’t so. I’ll do any- 
thing you like to help you out of the scrape. If 
you’re in one. That’s my meaning, I believe. 
What can I do? I would do anything to help 
you.” 

Her brow puckered, as she watched him make, 
with infinite emotion, this remarkable speech. 
“You l” she said. She was tumultuously weighing 
possibilities in her mind, and he had scarcely ceased 
when she had made her resolve. 

She stepped a pace forward. “You are a gentle- 
man,” she said. 

“Yes,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

“ Can I trust you ? ” 

She did not wait for his assurance. “ I must leave 
this hotel at once. Come here.” 

She took his arm and led him to the window. 
“You can just see the gate. It is still open. 


The Wheels of Chance 


127 


Through that are our bicycles. Go down, get them 
out, and I will come down to you. Dare you?” 

“Get your bicycle out in the road?” 

“Both. Mine alone is no good. At once. Dare 
you?” 

“Which way? ” 

“Go out by the front door and round. I will 
follow in one minute.” 

“ Right ! ” said Mr. Hoopdriver, and went. 

He had to get those bicycles. Had he been told 
to go^ out and kill Bechamel he would have done it. 
Hishead was a Maelstrom now. He walked out of 
the hotel, along the front, and into the big, black- 
shadowed coach yard. He looked round. There 
were no bicycles visible. Then a man emerged 
from the dark, a short man in a short, black, shiny 
jacket. Hoopdriver was caught. He made no 
attempt to turn and run for it. “I’ve been giving 
your machines a wipe over, sir,” said the man, 
recognising the suit, and touching his cap. Hoop- 
driver’s intelligence now was a soaring eagle ; he 
swooped on the situation at once. “That’s right,” 
he said, and added, before the pause became 
marked, “Where is mine? I want to look at the 
chain.” 

The man led him into an open shed, and went 
fumbling for a lantern. Hoopdriver moved the 


128 


The Wheels of Chance 


lady’s machine out of his way to the door, and then 
laid hands on the man’s machine and wheeled it out 
of the shed into the yard. The gate stood open and 
beyond was the pale road and a clump of trees black 
in the twilight. He stooped and examined the 
chain with trembling fingers. How was it to be 
done? Something behind the gate seemed to flutter. 
The man must be got rid of anyhow. 

“I say,” said Hoopdriver, with an inspiration. 
“Can you get me a screwdriver? ” 

The man simply walked across the shed, opened 
and shut a box, and came up to the kneeling Hoop- 
driver with a screwdriver in his hand. Hoopdriver 
felt himself a lost man. He took the screwdriver 
with a tepid “ Thanks, ” and incontinently had another 
inspiration. 

“I say,” he said again. 

“Well?” 

“This is Miles too big.” 

The man lit the lantern, brought it up to Hoop- 
driver and put it down on the ground. “Want a 
smaller screwdriver?” he said. 

Hoopdriver had his handkerchief out and sneezed 
a prompt atichew. It is the orthodox thing when 
you wish to avoid recognition. “As small as 
you have,” he said, out of his pocket handker- 
chief. 


The Wheels of Chance 129 

“I ain’t got none smaller than that,” said the 
ostler. 

“Won’t do, really,” said Hoopdriver, still wallow- 
ing in his handkerchief. 

“I’ll see wot they got in the ’ouse, if you like, 
sir,” said the man. “If you would,” said Hoop- 
driver. And as the man’s heavily nailed boots went 
clattering down the yard, Hoopdriver stood up, took 
a noiseless step to the lady’s machine, laid trembling 
hands on its handle and saddle, and prepared for a 
rush. 

The scullery door opened momentarily and sent a 
beam of warm, yellow light up the road, shut again 
behind the man, and forthwith Hoopdriver rushed 
the machines towards the gate. A dark grey form 
came fluttering to meet him. “Give me this,” she 
said, and “bring yours.” 

He passed the thing to her, touched her hand in 
the darkness, ran back, seized Bechamel’s machine, 
and followed. 

The yellow light of the scullery door suddenly 
flashed upon the cobbles again. It was too late now 
to do anything but escape. He heard the ostler 
shout behind him, and came into the road. She 
was up and dim already. He got into the saddle 
without a blunder. In a moment the ostler was in 
the gateway with a full-throated “Hi ! sir! That 


130 


The Wheels of Chance 


ain’t allowed; ” and Hoopdriver was overtaking the 
Young Lady in Grey! For some moments the earth 
seemed alive with shouts of, “Stop ’em!” and the 
shadows with ambuscades of police. The road swept 
round, and they were riding out of sight of the hotel, 
and behind dark hedges, side by side. 

She was weeping with excitement as he overtook 
her. “Brave,” she said, “brave!” and he ceased 
to feel like a hunted thief. He looked over his 
shoulder and about him, and saw that they were 
already out of Bognor — for the Vicuna stands at the 
very westernmost extremity of the sea front — and 
riding on a fair wide road. 


XXIII 


The ostler (being a fool) rushed violently down 
the road vociferating after them. Then he returned 
panting to the Vicuna Hotel, and finding a group of 
men outside the entrance, who wanted to know what 
was up , stopped to give them the cream of the ad- 
venture. That gave the fugitives five minutes. Then 
pushing breathlessly into the bar, he had to make it 
clear to the barmaid what the matter was, and the 
‘ gov’nor ’ being out, they spent some more precious 
time wondering ‘what — ever’ was to be done! 
in which the two customers returning from outside 
joined with animation. There were also moral re- 
marks and other irrelevant contributions. There 
were conflicting ideas of telling the police and pursu- 
ing the flying couple on a horse. That made ten 
minutes. Then Stephen, the waiter, who had shown 
Hoopdriver up, came down and lit wonderful lights 
and started quite a fresh discussion by the simple 
question “ Which ? ” That turned ten minutes into 
a quarter of an hour. And in the midst of this dis- 
cussion, making a sudden and awe-stricken silence, 
I 3 I 


132 


The Wheels of Chance 


appeared Bechamel in the hall beyond the bar, 
walked with a resolute air to the foot of the staircase, 
and passed out of sight. You conceive the backward 
pitch of that exceptionally shaped cranium? Incred- 
ulous eyes stared into one another’s in the bar, as his 
paces, muffled by the stair carpet, went up to the 
landing, turned, reached the passage and walked into 
the dining-room overhead. 

“ It wasn’t that one at all, Miss ! ” said the ostler. 
“ I’d swear T 

“Well, that’s Mr. Beaumont!” said the barmaid; 
“ — anyhow.” 

Their conversation hung comatose in the air, 
switched up by Bechamel. They listened together. 
His feet stopped. Turned. Went out of the dining- 
room. Down the passage to the bedroom. Stopped 
again. 

“ Poor chap ! ” said the barmaid. “ She’s a 
wicked woman ! ” 

“ Sssh ! ” said Stephen. 

After a pause Bechamel went back to the dining- 
room. They heard a chair creak under him. Inter- 
lude of conversational eyebrows. 

“I’m going up,” said Stephen. “To break the 
melancholy news to him.” 

Bechamel looked up from a week-old newspaper 
as, without knocking, Stephen entered. Bechamel’s 


The Wheels of Chance 133 

face suggested a different expectation. “ Beg pardon, 
sir,” said Stephen with a diplomatic cough. 

“Well?” said Bechamel, wondering suddenly if 
Jessie had kept some of her threats. If so, he was 
in for an explanation. But he had it ready. She was 
a monomaniac. “ Leave me alone with her,” he would 
say ; “ I know how to calm her.” 

“ Mrs. Beaumont,” said Stephen. 

“ Well ? ” 

“ Has gone.” 

He rose with a fine surprise. “Gone!” he said 
with a half laugh. 

“ Gone, sir. On her bicycle.” 

“ On her bicycle ! Why?” 

“ She went, sir, with Another Gentleman.” 

This time Bechamel was really startled. “ An — 
other Gentlemen ! Who ? ” 

“ Another gentleman in brown, sir. Went into the 
yard, Sir, got out the two bicycles, sir, and went off, 
sir — about twenty minutes ago.” 

Bechamel stood with his eyes round and his 
knuckle on his hips. Stephen, watching him with im- 
mense enjoyment, speculated whether this abandoned 
husband would weep or curse, or rush off at once 
in furious pursuit. But as yet he seemed merely 
stunned. 

“ Brown ? ” he said. " And fairish ? ” 


34 


The Wheels of Chance 


“ A little like yourself, sir, — in the dark. The 
ostler, sir, Jim Duke — ” 

Bechamel laughed awry. Then, with infinite 
fervour, he said — “ But let us put in blank car- 
tridge — ,” he said ; “ .” 

“ I might have thought ! ” 

He flung himself into the armchair. 

“ her,” said Bechamel, for all the world like 

a common man. “ I’ll chuck this infernal business ! 
They’ve gone, eigh ? ” 

“ Yessir.” 

“Well, let ’em go,” said Bechamel, making a mem- 
orable saying. “Let ’em go. Who cares? And I 
wish him luck. And bring me some Bourbon as 
fast as you can, there’s a good chap. I’ll take that, 
and then I’ll have another look round Bognor before 
I turn in.” 

Stephen was too surprised to say anything but 
“ Bourbon, sir, yessir.” 

“ Go on,” said Bechamel. “ Damn you.” 

Stephen’s sympathies changed at once. “Yessir,” 
he murmured, fumbling for the door handle, and left 
the room, marvelling. Bechamel, having in this way 
satisfied his sense of appearances, and comported 
himself as a Pagan should, so soon as the waiter’s 
footsteps had passed, vented the cream of his feelings 
in a stream of blasphemous indecency. Whether his 


The Wheels of Chance 135 

wife or her stepmother had sent the detective, she 
had evidently gone off with him, and that little busi- 
ness was over. And he was here, stranded and sold, 
an ass, and as it were, the son of many generations 
of asses. And his only ray of hope was that it 
seemed more probable, after all, that the girl had 
escaped through her stepmother. In which case the 
business might be hushed up yet, and the evil hour 
of explanation with his wife indefinitely postponed. 
Then abruptly the image of that lithe figure in grey 
knickerbockers went frisking across his mind again, 
and he reverted to his blasphemies. He started up 
in a gusty frenzy with a vague idea of pursuit, and 
incontinently sat down again with a concussion that 
stirred the bar below to its depths. He banged the 
arms of the chair with his fist, and swore again. 
“Of all the accursed fools that were ever spawned,” 
he was chanting ; “ I, Bechamel — ” when with an 
abrupt tap and prompt opening of the door, Stephen 
entered with the Bourbon. 



THE MOONLIGHT RIDE ! 

XXV 

And so the twenty minutes’ law passed into an in- 
finity. We leave the wicked Bechamel clothing him- 
self with cursing as with a garment, — the wretched 
creature has already sufficiently sullied our modest 
but truthful pages, — we leave the eager little group 
in the bar of the Vicuna Hotel, we leave all Bognor 
as we have left all Chichester and Midhurst and 
Haslemere and Guildford and Ripley and Putney, and 
follow this dear fool of a Hoopdriver of ours and his 
Young Lady in Grey out upon the moonlight road. 
How they rode ! How their hearts beat together and 
their breath came fast, and how every shadow was 
anticipation and every noise pursuit ! For all that 
flight Mr. Hoopdriver was in the world of Romance. 
Had a policeman intervened because their lamps were 
not lit, Hoopdriver had cut him down and ridden on, 
after the fashion of a hero born. Had Bechamel 
arisen in the way with rapiers for a duel, Hoopdriver 
had fought as one to whom Agincourt was a reality 
136 


The Wheels of Chance 


137 


and drapery a dream. It was Rescue, Elopement, 
Glory ! And she by the side of him ! He had seen 
her face in shadow, with the morning sunlight tangled 
in her hair, he had seen her sympathetic with that 
warm light in her face, he had seen her troubled and 
her eyes bright with tears. But what light is there 
lighting a face like hers, to compare with the soft 
glamour of the midsummer moon? 

The road turned northward, going round through 
the outskirts of Bognor, in one place dark and heavy 
under a thick growth of trees, then amidst villas again, 
some warm and lamplit, some white and sleeping 
in the moonlight ; then between hedges, over which 
they saw broad wan meadows shrouded in a low-lying 
mist. They scarcely heeded whither they rode at 
first, being only anxious to get away, turning once 
westward when the spire of Chichester cathedral 
rose suddenly near them out of the dewy night, pale 
and intricate and high. They rode, speaking little, 
just a rare word now and then, at a turning, at a 
footfall, at a roughness in the road. 

She seemed to be too intent upon escape to give 
much thought to him, but after the first tumult of 
the adventure, as flight passed into mere steady rid- 
ing, his mind became an enormous appreciation of 
the position. The night was a warm white silence 
save for the subtile running of their chains. He 


138 The Wheels of Chance 

looked sideways at her as she sat beside him with ber 
ankles gracefully ruling the treadles. Now the road 
turned westward, and she was a dark grey outline 
against the shimmer of the moon ; and now they 
faced northwards, and the soft cold light passed 
caressingly over her hair and touched her brow and 
cheek. 

There is a magic quality in moonshine ; it touches 
all that is sweet and beautiful, and the rest of the 
night is hidden. It has created the fairies, whom the 
sunlight kills, and fairyland rises again in our hearts 
at the sight of it, the voices of the filmy route, and 
their faint, soul-piercing melodies. By the moonlight 
every man, dull clod though he be by day, tastes 
something of Endymion, takes something of the youth 
and strength of Endymion, and sees the dear white 
goddess shining at him from his Lady’s eyes. The 
firm substantial daylight things become ghostly and 
elusive, the hills beyond are a sea of unsubstantial 
texture, the world a visible spirit, the spiritual within 
us rises out of its darkness, loses something of its 
weight and body, and swims up towards heaven. 
This road that was a mere rutted white dust, hot 
underfoot, blinding to the eye, is now a soft grey 
silence, with the glitter of a crystal grain set starlike 
in its silver here and there. Overhead, riding serenely 
through the spacious blue, is the mother of the silence, 


The Wheels of Chance 


139 


she who has spiritualised the world, alone save for two 
attendant steady shining stars. And in silence under 
her benign influence, under the benediction of her 
light, rode our two wanderers side by side through 
the transfigured and transfiguring night. 

Nowhere was the moon shining quite so brightly as 
in Mr. Hoopdriver’s skull. At the turnings of the 
road he made his decisions with an air of profound 
promptitude (and quite haphazard). “The Right,” 
he would say. Or again “ The Left,” as one who 
knew. So it was that in the space of an hour they 
came abruptly down a little lane, full tilt upon the 
sea. Grey beach to the right of them and to the 
left, and a little white cottage fast asleep inland of 
a sleeping fishing-boat. “ ’Ullo ! ” said Mr. Hoop- 
driver sotto voce. They dismounted abruptly. Stunted 
oaks and thorns rose out of the haze of moonlight 
that was tangled in the hedge on either side. 

“ You are safe,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, sweeping off 
his cap with an air and bowing courtly. 

“Where are we?” 

“Safe." 

“But where?" 

“ Chichester Harbour.” He waved his arm seaward 
as though it was a goal. 

“ Do you think they will follow us ? ” 

“ We have turned and turned again.” 


140 The Wheels of Chance 

It seemed to Hoopdriver that he heard her sob. 
She stood dimly there, holding her machine, and he, 
holding his, could go no nearer to her to see if she 
sobbed for weeping or for want of breath. “ What 
are we to do now?” her voice asked. 

“Are you tired?” he asked. 

“ I will do what has to be done.” 

The two black figures in the broken light were 
silent for a space. “ Do you know,” she said, “ I am 
not afraid of you. I am sure you are honest to me. 
And I do not even know your name ! ” 

He was taken with a sudden shame of his homely 
patronymic. “ It’s an ugly name,” he said. “ But 
you are right in trusting me. I would — I would 
do anything for you. This is nothing.” 

She caught at her breath. She did not care to 
ask why. But compared with Bechamel J — “ We 
take each other on trust,” she said. “ Do you want 
to know — how things are with me? 

“ That man,” she went on, after the assent of his 
listening silence, “ promised to help and protect me. 
I was unhappy at home — never mind why. A step- 
mother — Idle, unoccupied, hindered, cramped, that 
is enough perhaps. Then he came into my life, and 
talked to me of art and literature, and set my brain 
on fire. I wanted to come out into the world, to be a 
human being — not a thing in a hutch. And he — ” 


The Wheels of Chance 


141 


“ I know,” said Hoopdriver. 

“ And now, here I am — ” 

“ 1 will do anything,” said Hoopdriver. 

She thought. “ You cannot imagine my step- 
mother. No! I could not describe her — ” 

“ I am entirely at your service. I will help you 
with all my power.” 

“ I have lost an Illusion and found a Knight- 
errant.” She spoke of Bechamel as the Illusion. 

Mr. Hoopdriver felt flattered. But he had no 
adequate answer. 

“ I’m thinking,” he said, full of a rapture of pro- 
tective responsibility, “ what we had best be doing. 
You are tired, you know. And we can’t wander all 
night — after the day we’ve had.” 

“ That was Chichester we were near?” she asked. 

“ If,” he meditated, with a tremble in his voice, 
“ you would make me your brother, Miss Beaumont .” 

“ Yes? ” 

“ We could stop there together — ” 

She took a minute to answer. “ I am going to 
light these lamps,” said Hoopdriver. He bent down 
to his own, and struck a match on his shoe. She 
looked at his face in its light, grave and intent. How 
could she ever have thought him common or absurd? 

“But you must tell me your name — brother,” she 
said. 


142 


The Wheels of Chance 


“Er — Carrington,” said Mr. Hoopdirver, after a 
momentary pause. Who would be Hoopdriver on a 
night like this? 

“ But the Christian name ? ” 

“ Christian name ? My Christian name. Well, — 
Chris.” He snapped his lamp and stood up. If 
you will hold my machine, I will light yours,” he 
said. 

She came round obediently and took his machine, 
and for a moment they stood face to face. “ My 
name, brother Chris,” she said, “is Jessie.” 

He looked into her eyes, and his excitement seemed 
arrested. “ Jessie J he repeated slowly. The mute 
emotion of his face affected her strangely. She had 
to speak. “ It’s not such a very wonderful name, is 
it?” she said, with a laugh to break the intensity. 

He opened his mouth and shut it again, and with a 
sudden wincing of his features, abruptly turned and 
bent down to open the lantern in front of her machine. 
She looked down at him, almost kneeling in front of 
her, with an unreasonable approbation in her eyes. It 
was, as I have indicated, the hour and season of the 
full moon. 


XXVI 


Mr. Hoopdriver conducted the rest of that night’s 
journey with the same confident dignity as before, 
and it was chiefly by good luck and the fact that most 
roads about a town converge thereupon, that Chi- 
chester was at last attained. It seemed at first as 
though every one had gone to bed, but the Red Hotel 
still glowed yellow and warm. It was the first time 
Hoopdriver had dared the mysteries of a * first-class * 
hotel. But that night he was in the mood to dare 
anything. 

“So you found your Young Lady at last,” said the 
ostler of the Red Hotel; for it chanced he was one of 
those of whom Hoopdriver had made inquiries in the 
afternoon. 

“ Quite a misunderstanding,” said Hoopdriver, with 
splendid readiness. “ My sister had gone to Bognor. 
But I brought her back here. I’ve took a fancy to 
this place. And the moonlight’s simply dee- vine.” 

“ We’ve had supper, thenks, and we’re tired,” said 
Mr. Hoopdriver. “ I suppose you won’t take any- 
thing, — Jessie? ” 


i43 


144 7 'he Wheels of Chahce 

The glory of having her, even as a sister ! and to 
call her Jessie like, that ! But he carried it off splen- 
didly, as he felt himself bound to admit. “ Good-night, 
Sis,” he said, “ and pleasant dreams. I’ll just ’ave a 
look at this paper before I turn in.” But this was 
living indeed ! he told himself. 

So gallantly did Mr. Hoopdriver comport himself 
up to the very edge of the most Wonderful Day of all. 
It had begun early, .you will remember, with a vigil in 
a little sweetstuff shop next door to the Angel at Mid- 
hurst. But to think of all the things that had hap- 
pened since then ! He caught himself in the middle 
of a yawn, pulled out his watch, saw the time was half- 
past eleven, and marched off, with a fine sense of her- 
oism, bed ward. 


THE SURBITON INTERLUDE 


XXVII 

And here, thanks to the glorious institution of 
sleep, comes a break in the narrative again. These 
absurd young people are safely tucked away now, 
their heads full of glowing nonsense, indeed, but 
the course of events at any rate is safe from any 
fresh developments through their activities for the 
next eight hours or more. They are both sleeping 
healthily you will perhaps be astonished to hear. 
Here is the girl — What girls are coming to nowa- 
days only Mrs. Lynn Linton can tell ! — in company 
with an absolute stranger, of low extraction and 
uncertain accent, unchaperoned and unabashed, — 
indeed, now she fancies she is safe, she is, if any- 
thing, a little proud of her own share in these 
transactions. Then this Mr. Hoopdriver of yours, 
roseate idiot that he is ! is in illegal possession of a 
stolen bicycle, a stolen young lady, and two stolen 
names, established with them in an hotel that is 
quite beyond his means, and immensely proud of 
i45 


L 


146 The Wheels of Chance 

himself in a somnolent way for these incomparable 
follies. There are occasions when a moralising 
novelist can merely wring his hands and leave mat- 
ters to take their course. For all Hoopdriver knows 
or cares he may be locked up the very first thing 
to-morrow morning for the rape of the cycle. Then 
in Bognor, let alone that melancholy vestige, 
Bechamel, with whom our dealings are over, thank 
Goodness ! there is a Coffee Tavern with a steak Mr. 
Hoopdriver ordered, done to a cinder long ago, his 
American cloth parcel in a bedroom, and his own 
proper bicycle, by way of guarantee, carefully locked 
up in the hayloft. To-morrow he will be a Mystery, 
and they will be looking for his body along the sea 
front. And so far we have never given a glance at 
the desolate home in Surbiton, familiar to you no 
doubt through the medium of illustrated interviews, 
where the unhappy stepmother — 

That stepmother, it must be explained, is quite 
well known to you. That is a little surprise I have 
prepared for you. She is ‘Thomas Plantagenet, ’ 
the gifted authoress of that witty and daring book, 
“A Soul Untrammelled,” and quite an excellent 
woman in her way. Only it is such a crooked way. 
Her real name is Milward. She is a widow and a 
charming one, only ten years older than Jessie, and 
she is always careful to dedicate her more daring 


The Wheels of Chance 


1 4 7 


works to the ‘ sacred memory of my husband ’. to 
show that there’s nothing personal, you know, in the 
matter. Considering her literary reputation (she 
was always speaking of herself as one ‘ martyred for 
truth,’ because the critics advertised her written 
indecorums in column long ‘ slates ’), — considering 
her literary reputation, I say, she was one of the 
most respectable women it is possible to imagine. 
She furnished correctly, dressed correctly, had severe 
notions of whom she might meet, went to church, 
and even at times took the sacrament in some 
esoteric spirit. And Jessie she brought up so care- 
fully that she never even let her read “A Soul 
Untrammelled.” Which, therefore, naturally enough, 
Jessie did, and went on from that to a feast of 
advanced literature. Mrs. Milward not only brought 
up Jessie carefully, but very slowly, so that at eighteen 
she was still a schoolgirl (as you have seen her) and 
quite in the background of the little literary circle 
of unimportant celebrities which ‘Thomas Planta- 
genet ’ adorned. Mrs. Milward knew Bechamel’s 
reputation of being a dangerous man ; but then bad 
men are not bad women, and she let him come to 
her house to show she was not afraid — she took no 
account of Jessie. When the elopement came, 
therefore, it was a double disappoinment to her, 
for she perceived his hand by a kind of instinct. 


148 


The Wheels of Chance 


She did the correct thing. The correct thing, as 
you know, is to take hansom cabs, regardless of 
expense, and weep and say you do not know what 
to do, round the circle of your confidential friends. 
She could not have ridden nor wept more had Jessie 
been her own daughter — she showed the properest 
spirit. And she not only showed it, but felt it. 

Mrs. Milward, as a successful little authoress and 
still more successful widow of thirty-two — “Thomas 
Plantagenet is a charming woman,” her reviewers 
used to write invariably, even if they spoke ill of 
her — found the steady growth of Jessie into woman- 
hood an unmitigated nuisance and had been willing 
enough to keep her in the background. And Jessie 
— who had started this intercourse at fourteen with 
abstract objections to stepmothers — had been active 
enough in resenting this. Increasing rivalry and 
antagonism had sprung up between them, until they 
could engender quite a vivid hatred from a dropped 
hairpin or the cuttting of a book with a sharpened 
knife. There is very little deliberate wickedness in 
the world. The stupidity of our selfishness gives 
much the same results indeed, but in the ethical 
laboratory it shows a different nature. And when 
the disaster came, Mrs. Milward’ s remorse for their 
gradual loss of sympathy and her share in the losing 
of it, was genuine enough. 


The Wheels of Chance 


149 


You may imagine the comfort she got from her 
friends, and how West Kensington and Notting Hill 
and Hampstead, the literary suburbs, those decent 
penitentiaries of a once Bohemian calling, hummed 
with the business. Her 4 Men ’ — as a charming 
literary lady she had, of course, an organised corps 

— were immensely excited, and were sympathetic; 
helpfully energetic, suggestive, alert, as their ideals 
of their various dispositions required them to be. 
“Any news of Jessie?” was the pathetic opening of 
a dozen melancholy but interesting conversations. 
To her Men she was not perhaps so damp as she was 
to her women friends, but in a quiet way she was 
even more touching. For three days, Wednesday 
that is, Thursday, and Friday, nothing was heard of 
the fugitives. It was known that Jessie, wearing a 
patent costume with button-up skirts, and mounted 
on a diamond frame safety with Dunlops, and a 
loofah covered saddle, had ridden forth early in the 
morning, taking with her about two pounds seven 
shillings in money, and a grey touring case packed, 
and there, save for a brief note to her stepmother, 

— a declaration of independence, it was said, an 
assertion of her Ego containing extensive and 
very annoying quotations from “A Soul Untram- 
melled,” and giving no definite intimation of 
her plans — knowledge ceased. That note was 


150 The Wheels of Chance 

shown to few, and then only in the strictest con- 
fidence. 

But on Friday evening late came a breathless Man 
Friend, Widgery, a correspondent of hers, who had 
heard of her trouble among the first. He had been 
touring in Sussex, — his knapsack was still on his 
back, — and he testified hurriedly that at a place 
called Midhurst, in the bar of an hotel called the 
Angel, he had heard from a barmaid a vivid account 
of a Young Lady in Grey. Descriptions tallied. 
But who was the man in brown? “The poor, mis- 
guided girl! I must go to her at once,” she said, 
choking, and rising with her hand to her heart. 

“It’s impossible to-night. There are no more 
trains. I looked on my way.” 

“A mother’s love,” she said. “ I bear her that.” 

“I know you do.” He spoke with feeling, for no 
one admired his photographs of scenery more than 
Mrs. Milward. “It’s more than she deserves.” 

“Oh, don’t speak unkindly of her! She has been 
misled.” 

It was really very friendly of him. He declared 
he was only sorry his news ended there. Should he 
follow them, and bring her back ? He had come to 
her because he knew of her anxiety. “ It is good of 
you,” she said, and quite instinctively took and 
pressed his hand. “ And to think of that poor girl 


The Wheels of Chance 


5i 


— to-night! It’s dreadful.” She looked into the 
fire that she had lit when he came in, the warm light 
fell upon her dark purple dress, and left her features 
in a warm shadow. She looked such a slight, frail 
thing to be troubled so. “We must follow her.” 
Her resolution seemed magnificent. “I have no 
one to go with me.” 

“He must marry her,” said the man. 

“She has no friends. We have no one. After 
all — Two women. So helpless.” 

And this fair-haired little figure was the woman 
that people who knew her only from her books, 
called bold, prurient even ! Simply because she was 
great-hearted — intellectual. He was overcome by 
the unspeakable pathos of her position. 

“ Mrs. Milward, ” he said. “ Hetty ! ” 

She glanced at him. The overflow was imminent. 
“Not now,” she said, “not now. I must find her 
first.” 

“Yes,” he said, with intense emotion. (He was 
one of those big, fat men who feel deeply.) “But 
let me help you. At least let me help you.” 

“But can you spare time?” she said. “For me." 

“For you — ” 

“But what can I do? what can we do? ” 

“Go to Midhurst. Follow her on. Trace her. 
She was there on Thursday night, last night. She 


152 


The Wheels of Chance 


cycled out of the town. Courage!” he said. “We 
will save her yet ! ” 

She put out her hand and pressed his again. 

“Courage!” he repeated, finding it so well re- 
ceived. 

There were alarms and excursions without. She 
turned her back to the fire, and he sat down suddenly 
in the big armchair, which suited his dimensions 
admirably. Then the door opened, and the girl 
showed in Dangle, who looked curiously from one 
to the other. There was emotion here, he had heard 
the armchair creaking, and Mrs. Milward, whose face 
was flushed, displayed a suspicious alacrity to explain. 
“You, too,” she said, “are one of my good friends. 
And we have news of her at last.” 

It was decidedly an advantage to Widgery, but 
Dangle determined to show himself a man of 
resource. In the end he, too, was accepted for the 
Midhurst Expedition, to the intense disgust of Wid- 
gery; and young Phipps, a callow youth of few words, 
faultless collars, and fervent devotion, was also 
enrolled before the evening was out. They would 
scour the country, all three of them. She appeared 
to brighten up a little, but it was evident she was 
profoundly touched. She did not know what she 
had done to merit such friends. Her voice broke a 
little, she moved towards the door, and young Phipps, 


The W heels of Chance 


153 


who was a youth of action rather than of words, 
sprang and opened it — proud to be first. 

“She is sorely troubled,” said Dangle to Widgery. 

“We must do what we can for her.” 

“She is a wonderful woman,” said Dangle. “So 
subtle, so intricate, so many facetted. She feels 
this deeply.” 

Young Phipps said nothing, but he felt the more. 

And yet they say the age of chivalry is dead ! 

But this is only an Interlude, introduced to give 
our wanderers time- to refresh themselves by good, 
honest sleeping. For the present, therefore, we will 
not concern ourselves with the starting of the Rescue 
Party, nor with Mrs. Milward’s simple but becoming 
grey dress, with the healthy Widgery’s Norfolk jacket 
and thick boots, with the slender Dangle’ s energetic 
bearing, nor with the wonderful chequerings that set 
off the legs of the golf-suited Phipps. They are after 
us. In a little while they will be upon us. You 
must imagine as you best can the competitive raid- 
ings at Midhurst of Widgery, Dangle, and Phipps. 
How Widgery was great at questions, and Dangle 
good at inference, and Phipps so conspicuously 
inferior in everything, that he felt it and sulked 
with Mrs. Milward most of the day, after the manner 
of your callow youth the whole world over. Mrs. 
Milward stopped at the Angel and was very sad, and 


154 


The Wheels of Chance 


charming and intelligent, and Widgery paid the bill. 
In the afternoon of Saturday, Chichester was attained. 
But by that time our fugitives — As you shall im- 
mediately hear. 


THE AWAKENING OF MR. HOOPDRIVER 


XXVIII 

Mr. Hoopdriver stirred on his pillow, opened his 
eyes, and, staring unmeaningly, yawned. The bed- 
clothes were soft and pleasant. He turned the 
peaked nose that overrides the insufficient mous- 
tache, up to the ceiling, a pinkish projection over 
the billow of white. You might see it wrinkle as he 
yawned again and then become quiet. So matters 
remained for a space. Very slowly recollection re- 
turned to him. Then a shock of indeterminate 
brown hair appeared, and first one watery grey eye 
a-wondering, and then two ; the bed upheaved, and 
you had him, his thin neck projecting abruptly from 
the clothes he held about him, his face staring about 
the room. He held the clothes about him, I hope 
I may explain, because his night-shirt was at Bognor 
in an American- cloth packet, derelict. He yawned 
a third time, rubbed his eyes, smacked his lips. He 
was recalling almost everything now. The pursuit, 
the hotel, the tremulous daring of his entry, the swift 
i55 


156 The Wheels of Chance 

adventure of the inn yard, the moonlight — Ab- 
ruptly he threw the clothes back and rose into a 
sitting position on the edge of the bed. Without 
was the noise of shutters being unfastened and doors 
unlocked, and the passing of hoofs and wheels in the 
street. He looked at his watch. Half-past six. He 
surveyed the sumptuous room again. 

“Lord!” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “It wasn’t a 
dream, after all.” 

“ I wonder what they charge for these juiced 
rooms ! ” said Mr. Hoopdriver, nursing one rosy 
foot. 

He became meditative, tugging at his insufficient 
moustache. Suddenly he gave vent to a noiseless 
laugh. “ What a rush it was ! Rushed in and off 
with his girl right under his nose. Planned it well 
too. Talk of highway robbery ! Talk of brigands ! 
Up and off! How juiced sold he mnst be feeling! 
It was a shave too — in the coach yard!” 

Suddenly he became silent. Abruptly his eye- 
brows rose and his jaw fell. “ I sa — a — ay ! ” said 
Mr. Hoopdriver. 

He had never thought of it before. Perhaps you 
will understand the whirl he had been in overnight. 
But one sees things clearer in the daylight. “ I’m 
hanged if I haven’t been and stolen a blessed 
bicycle.” 


The Wheels of Chance 157 

“Who cares? ’’said Mr. Hoopdriver, presently, and 
his face supplied the answer. 

Then he thought of the Young Lady in Grey again, 
and tried to put a more heroic complexion on the 
business. But of an early morning, on an empty 
stomach (as with characteristic coarseness, medical 
men put it) heroics are of a more difficult growth 
than by moonlight. Everything had seemed ex- 
ceptionally fine and brilliant, but quite natural, the 
evening before. 

Mr. Hoopdriver reached out his hand, took his 
Norfolk jacket, laid it over his knees, and took out 
the money from the little ticket pocket. “ Fourteen 
and six-half,” he said, holding the coins in his left 
hand and stroking his chin with his right. He veri- 
fied, by patting, the presence of a pocketbook in the 
breast pocket. “ Five, fourteen, six-half,” said Mr. 
Hoopdriver. “ Left.” 

With the Norfolk jacket still on his knees, he 
plunged into another silent meditation. “ That 
wouldn’t matter,” he said. “ It’s the bike’s the 
bother.” 

“No good going back to Bognor.” 

“ Might send it back by carrier, of course. Thank- 
ing him for the loan. Having no further use — ” 
Mr. Hoopdriver chuckled and lapsed into the silent 
concoction of a delightfully impudent letter. “ Mr. 


1 5 8 


The Wheels of Chance 


J. Hoopdriver presents his compliments.” But the 
grave note reasserted itself. 

“ Might trundle back there in an hour, of course, 
and exchange them. My old crock’s so blessed 
shabby. He’s sure to be spiteful too. Have me 
run in, perhaps. Then she’d be in just the same old 
fix, only worse. You see, I’m her Cnight-errant. 
It complicates things so. 

His eye wondering loosely, rested on the sponge 
bath. “ What the juice do they want with cream pans 
in a bedroom ? ” said Mr. Hoopdriver, en passant. 

“ Best thing we can do is to set out of here as soon 
as possible, anyhow. I suppose she’ll go home to her 
friends. That bicycle is a juicy nuisance anyhow. 
Juicy nuisance.” 

He jumped to his feet with a sudden awakening of 
energy, to proceed with his toilette. Then with a 
certain horror he remembered that the simple neces- 
saries of that process were at Bognor ! “ Lord ! ” 

he remarked, and whistled silently for a space. 
“ Rummy go, profit and loss ; profit, one sister 
with bicycle complete, wot offers ? — cheap for tooth 
and ’air brush, vests, nightshirt, stockings, and 
sundries.” 

“ Make the best of it,” and presently, when it came 
to hair-brushing, he had to smooth his troubled locks 
with his hands. It was a poor result. “Sneak out 


The Wheels of Chance 159 

and get a shave, I suppose, and buy a brush and so 
on. Chink again ! Beard don’t show much.” 

He ran his hand over his chin, looked at himself 
steadfastly for some time, and curled his insufficient 
moustache up with some care. Then he fell a-medi- 
tating on his beauty. He considered himself, three- 
quarter face, left and right. An expression of dis- 
taste crept over his features. “ Looking won’t alter 
it, Hoopdriver,” he remarked. “ You’re a weedy cus- 
tomer, my man. Shoulders narrow. Skimpy, anyhow.” 

He put his knuckles on the toilet table and re- 
garded himself with his chin lifted in the air. “ Good 
Lord ! ” he said. “ What a neck ! Wonder why I 
got such a thundering lump there.” 

He sat down on the bed, his eye still on the glass. 
“ If I’d been exercised properly, if I’d been fed 
reasonable, if I hadn’t been shoved out of a silly 
school into a silly shop — But there ! the old folks 
didn’t know no better. The schoolmaster ought to 
have. But he didn’t, poor old fool ! — Still, when it 
comes to meeting a girl like this — It’s ’ ard , .” 

“ I wonder what Adan’d think of me — as a speci- 
men. Civilisation, eigh? Heir of the ages. I’m 
nothing. I know nothing. I can’t do anything — 
sketch a bit. Why wasn’t I made an artist? ” 

“ Beastly cheap, after all, this suit does look, in 
the sunshine.” 


160 The Wheels of Chance 

“ No good, Hoopdriver. Anyhow, you don’t tell 
yourself any lies about it. Lovers ain’t your game, 
— anyway. But there’s other things yet. You can 
help the young lady, and you will — I suppose she’ll 
be going home — And that business of the bicycle’s 
to see to, too, my man. Forward , Hoopdriver ! 
If you ain’t a beauty, that’s no reason why you 
should stop the copped, is it?” 

And having got back in this way to a gloomy kind 
of self-satisfaction, he had another attempt at his hair 
preparatory to leaving his room and hurrying on 
breakfast, for an early departure. While breakfast 
was preparing he wandered out into South Street 
and refurnished himself with the elements of luggage 
again. “ No expense to be spared ” he murmured, 
disgorging the half-sovereign. 


THE DEPARTURE FROM CHICHESTER 


XXIX 

He caused his 4 sister ’ to be called repeatedly, and 
when she came down, explained with a humorous 
smile his legal relationship to the bicycle in the 
yard. “Might be disagreeable, y’ know.” His 
anxiety was obvious enough. “Very well,” she said 
(quite friendly); “ hurry breakfast, and we’ll ride out. 
I want to talk things over with you.” The girl-seemed 
more beautiful than ever after the night’s sleep; her 
hair in comely dark waves from her forehead, her 
ungauntleted finger-tips pink and cool. And how 
decided she was! Breakfast was a nervous cere- 
mony, conversation fraternal but thin ; the waiter 
overawed him, and he was cowed by a multiplicity 
of forks. But she called him “Chris.” They dis- 
cussed their route over his sixpenny county map for 
the sake of talking, but avoided a decision in the 
presence of the attendant. The five-pound note 
was changed for the bill, and through Hoopdriver’s 
determination to be quite the gentleman, the waiter 
161 


62 


The Wheels of Chance 


and chambermaid got half a crown each and the 
ostler a florin. “’Olidays,” said the ostler to him- 
self, without gratitude. The public mounting of the 
bicycles in the street was a moment of trepidation. 
Policeman actually stopped and watched them from 
the opposite kerb. Suppose him to come across and 
ask: “Is that your bicycle, sir?” Fight? Or drop 
it and run? It was a time of bewildering apprehen- 
sion, too, going through the streets of the town, so 
that a milk cart barely escaped destruction under 
Mr. Hoopdriver’s chancy wheel. That recalled him 
to a sense of erratic steering, and he pulled himself 
together. In the lanes he breathed freer, and a less 
formal conversation presently began. 

“You’ve ridden out of Chichester in a great 
hurry,” said Jessie. 

“Well, the fact of it is, I’m worried, just a little 
bit. About this machine.” 

“Of course,” she said. “I had forgotten that. 
But where are we going? ” 

“Jest a turning or two more, if you don’t mind,” 
said Hoopdriver. “Jest a mile or so. I have to 
think of you, you know. I should feel more easy. 
If we was locked up, you know — Not that I should 
mind on my own account — ” 

They rode with a streaky, grey sea coming and 
going on their left hand. Every mile they put 


The Wheels of Chance 163 

between themselves and Chichester Mr. Hoopdriver 
felt a little less conscience-stricken, and a little more 
of the gallant desperado. Here he was riding on a 
splendid machine with a Slap-up girl beside him. 
What would they think of it in the Emporium if any 
of them were to see him? He imagined in detail 
the astonishment of Miss Isaacs and of Miss Howe. 
“Why! It’s Mr. Hoopdriver,” Miss Isaacs would 
say. “Never/” emphatically from Miss Howe. 
Then he played with Briggs, and then tried the 
‘G. V.’ in a shay. “ Fancy introjuicing ’em to her — 
My sister pro tem.” He was her brother Chris — 
Chris what? — Confound it ! Harringon, Hartington 
— something like that. Have to keep off that topic 
until he could remember Wish he’d told her the 
truth now — almost. He glanced at her. She was 
riding with her eyes straight ahead of her. Think- 
ing. A little perplexed, perhaps, she seemed. 
He noticed how well she rode and that she rode with 
her lips closed — a thing he could never manage. 

Mr. Hoopdriver’s mind came round to the future. 
What was she going to do? What were they both 
going to do? His thoughts took a graver colour. 
He had rescued her. This was fine, manly rescue 
work he was engaged upon. She ought to go home, 
in spite of that stepmother. He must insist gravely 
but firmly upon that. She was the spirited sort, of 


164 


The Wheels of Chance 


course, but still — Wonder if she had any money? 
Wonder what the second-class fare from Havant to 
London is? Of course he would have to pay that — 
it was the regular thing, he being a gentleman. 
Then should he take her home ? He began to rough 
in a moving sketch of the return. The stepmother, 
repentant of her indescribable cruelties, would be 
present — even these rich people have their troubles 
— probably an uncle or two. The footman would 
announce, Mr. — Bother that name! and Miss Mil- 
ward. Then two women weeping together, and a 
knightly figure in the background dressed in a 
handsome Norfolk jacket, still conspicuously new. 
He would conceal his feeling until the very end. 
Then, leaving, he would pause in the doorway in 
such an attitude as Mr. George Alexander might 
assume, and say, slowly and dwindlingly : “ Be kind 
to her — be kind to her,” and so depart, heartbroken 
to the meanest intelligence. But that was a matter 
for the future. He would have to begin discussing 
the return soon. There was no traffic along the road, 
and he came up beside her (he had fallen behind in 
his musing). She began to talk. “Mr. Denison,” 
she began, and then, doubtfully, “ That is your name ? 
I’m very stupid — ” 

“It is,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. (Denison, was it? 
Denison, Denison, Denison. What was she saying?) 


The Wheels of Chance 165 

“I wonder how far you are willing to help me? ” 

Confoundedly hard to answer a question like that 
on the spur of the moment, without steering wildly. 
“You may rely,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, recovering 
from a violent wabble. “I can assure you — I 
want to help you very much. Don’t consider me at 
all. Leastways, consider me entirely at your ser- 
vice.” (Nuisance not to be able to say this kind of 
thing right.) 

“You see, I am so awkwardly situated.” 

“ If I can only help you — you will make me very 
happy — ” There was a pause. Round a bend in 
the road they came upon a grassy space between 
hedge and road, set with yarrow and meadowsweet, 
where a felled tree lay among the green. There she 
dismounted, and propping her machine against a 
stone, sat down. . “Here, we can talk,” she said. 

“Yes,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, expectant. 

She answered after a little while, sitting, elbow on 
knee, with her chin in her hand, and looking straight 
in front of her. “I don’t know — I am resolved to 
Live my Own Life.” 

“ Of course,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “Naturally.” 

“ I want to Live, and 1^ want to see what life 
means. I want to learn. Every one is hurrying me, 
everything is hurrying me; I want time to think.” 

Mr. Hoopdriver was puzzled, but admiring. It 


1 66 The Wheels of Chance 

was wonderful how clear and ready her words were. 
But then one might well speak well with a throat 
and lips like that. He knew he was inadequate, but 
he tried to meet the occasion. “If you let them 
rush you into anything you might repent of, of 
course you’d be very silly,” he said. 

“Don’t you want to learn? ” she asked. 

“I was wondering only this morning,” he began, 
and stopped. 

She was too intent upon her own thoughts to notice 
this insufficiency. “ I find myself in life, and it 
terrifies me. I seem to be like a little speck whirl- 
ing on a wheel, suddenly caught up. ‘What am I 
here for?’ I ask. Simply to be here a time — I 
asked it a week ago, I asked it yesterday, and I ask 
it to-day. And little things happen and the days 
pass. My stepmother takes me shopping, people 
come to tea, there is a new play to pass the time, or 
a concert, or a novel. The wheels of the world go 
on turning, turning. It is horrible. I want to do a 
miracle like Joshua and stop the whirl until I have 
fought it out. At home — It’s impossible.” 

Mr. Hoopdriver stroked his moustache. “It is 
so,” he said, in a meditative tone. “Things will go 
on.” The faint breath of summer stirred the trees, 
and a bunch of dandelion puff lifted among the 
meadowsweet and struck and broke into a dozen 


The Wheels of Chance 


67 


separate threads against his knee. They flew on 
apart, and sank, as the breeze fell, among the grass : 
some to germinate, some to perish. His eye fol- 
lowed them until they had vanished. 

“I can’t go back to Surbiton,” said the Young 
Lady in Grey. 

“ Eigh? ” said Mr. Hoopdriver, catching at his 
moustache. This was an unexpected development. 

“I want to write, you see,” said the Young Lady 
in Grey, “to write Books and alter things. To do 
Good. I want to lead a Free Life and Own myself. 
I can’t go back. I want to obtain a position as a 
Journalist. I have been told — But I know no 
one to help me at once. No one that I could go to. 
There is one person — She was a mistress at my 
school. If I could write to her — But then, how 
could I get her answer? ” 

“H’mp,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, very grave. 

“I can’t trouble you much more. You have come 
- — you have risked things — ” 

“That don’t count,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “It’s 
double pay to let me do it, so to speak.” 

“It is good of you to say that. Surbiton is so 
Conventional. I am resolved to be Unconventional 
— at any cost. But we are so hampered. If I could 
only burgeon out of all that hinders me ! I want to 
struggle, to take my place in the world. I want to 


1 68 The Wheels of Chance 

be my own mistress, to shape my own career. But 
my stepmother objects so. She does as she likes 
herself, and is strict with me to ease her conscience. 
And if I go back now, go back owning myself 
beaten — ” She left the rest to his imagination. 

“I see that,” agreed Mr. Hoopdriver. He must 
help her. Within his skull he was doing some 
intricate arithmetic with five pounds six and two- 
pence. In some vague way he inferred from all 
this that Jessie was trying to escape from an unde- 
sirable marriage, but was saying these things out of 
modesty. His circle of ideas was so limited. 

“You know, Mr. — I’ve forgotten your name 
again.” 

Mr. Hoopdriver seemed lost in abstraction. 
“You can’t go back of course, quite like that,” he 
said, thoughtfully. His ears were suddenly red and 
his cheeks flushed. 

“ But what is your name? ” 

“Name!” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “Why! — Ben- 
son, of course.” 

“Mr. Benson — yes — it’s really very stupid of 
me. But I can never remember names. I must 
make a note on my cuff.” She clicked a little silver 
pencil and wrote the name down. “ If I could write 
to my friend. I believe she would be able to help 
me to an independent life. I could write to her — 


The Wheels of Chance 


169 


or telegraph. Write, I think. I could scarcely 
explain in a telegram. I know she would help me.” 

Clearly there was only one course open to a gentle- 
man under the circumstances. “In that case,” said 
Mr. Hoopdriver, “if you don’t mind trusting your- 
self to a stranger, we might continue as we are 
perhaps. For a day or so. Until you heard.” 
(Suppose thirty .shillings a day, that gives four days, 
say four thirties is hun’ and twenty, six quid, — 
well, three days, say; four ten.) 

“You are very good to me.” 

His expression was eloquent. 

“Very well, then, and thank you. It’s wonderful 
— it’s more than I deserve that you — ” She 
dropped the theme abruptly. “ What was our bill at 
Chichester? ” 

“Eigh? ” said Mr. Hoopdriver, feinging a certain 
stupidity. There was a brief discussion. Secretly 
he was delighted at her insistence in paying. She 
carried her point. Their talk came round to their 
immediate plans for the day. They decided to ride 
easily, through Havant, and stop, perhaps, at Fare- 
ham or Southampton. For the previous day had 
tried them both. Holding the map extended on his 
knee, Mr. Hoopdriver’s eye fell by chance on the 
bicycle at his feet. “That bicycle,” he remarked, 
quite irrelevantly, “wouldn’t look the same machine 


170 The Wheels of Chance 

if I got a big, double Elarum instead of that little 
bell.” 

“Why?” 

“J.est a thought.” A pause. 

“Very well, then, — Havant and lunch,” said 
Jessie, rising. 

“ I wish, somehow, we could have managed it 
without stealing that machine,’* said Hoopdriver. 
“ Because it is stealing it, you know, come to think 
of it.” 

“Nonsense. If Mr. Bechamel troubles you — I 
will tell the whole world — if need be.” 

“I believe you would,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, 
admiring her. “You’re plucky enough — goodness 
knows.” 

Discovering suddenly that she was standing, he, 
too, rose and picked up her machine. She took it 
and wheeled it into the road. Then he took his own. 
He paused, regarding it. “ I say ! ” said he. “ How’d 
this bike look, now, if it was enamelled grey?” 

She looked over her shoulder at his grave face. 
“Why try and hide it in that way?” 

“It was jest a passing thought,” said Mr. Hoop- 
driver, airily. 

As they were riding on to Havant it occurred to 
Mr. Hoopdriver in a transitory manner that the 
interview had been quite other than his expectation. 


The Wheels of Chance 


• 171 


But that was the way with everything in Mr. Hoop- 
driver’s experience. And though his Wisdom looked 
grave within him, and Caution was chinking coins, 
and an ancient prejudice in favour of Property shook 
her head, something else was there too, shouting in 
his mind to drown all these saner considerations, the 
intoxicating thought of riding beside Her all to-day, 
all to-morrow, perhaps for other days after that. Of 
talking to her familiarily, being brother of all her 
slender strength and freshness, of having a golden, 
-real, and wonderful time beyond all his imaginings. 
His old familiar fancyings gave place to anticipa- 
tions as impalpable and fluctuating and beautiful as 
the sunset of a summer day. 

At Havant he took an opportunity to purchase, at 
a small hairdresser’s in the main street, a toothbrush, 
a pair of nail scissors, and a little bottle of stuff to 
darken the moustache, an article the shopman intro- 
duced to his attention, recommended highly, and 
sold in the excitement of the occasion. 


THE UNEXPECTED ANECDOTE OF THE 
LION 


XXX 

They rode on to Cosham and lunched lightly but 
expensively there. Jessie went out and posted her 
letter to her school friend. Then the green height - 
of Portsdown Hill tempted them, and leaving their 
machines in the village they clambered up the slope 
to the silent red-brick fort that -crowned it. Thence 
they had a view of Portsmouth and its cluster of 
sister towns, the crowded narrows of the harbour, the 
Solent and the Isle of Wight like a blue cloud through 
the hot haze. Jessie by some miracle had become a 
skirted woman in the Cosham inn. Mr. Hoopdriver 
lounged gracefully on the turf, smoked a Red Herring 
cigarette, and lazily regarded the fortified towns that 
spread like a map away there, the inner line of defence 
like toy fortifications, a mile off perhaps ; and beyond 
that a few little fields and then the beginnings of 
Landport suburb and the smoky cluster of the multi- 
tudinous houses. To the right at the head of the 
172 


The Wheels of Chance 


73 


harbour shallows the town of Porchester rose among 
the trees. Mr. Hoopdriver’s anxiety receded to some 
remote corner of his brain and that florid half-volun- 
tary imagination of his shared the stage with the 
image of Jessie. He began to speculate on the 
impression he was creating. He took stock of his 
suit, and reviewed, with some complacency, his ac- 
tions for the last four and twenty hours. Then he 
was dashed at the thought of her infinite perfections. 

She had been observing him quietly, rather more 
closely during the last hour or so. She did not look 
at him directly because he seemed always looking at 
her. Her own troubles had quieted down a little, and 
her curiosity about the chivalrous, worshipping, but 
singular gentleman, in Jbrown, wasa wakening. She had 
recalled, too, the curious incident of their first encoun- 
ter. She found him hard to explain to herself. You 
must understand that her knowledge of the world was 
rather less than nothing, having been obtained en- 
tirely from books. You must not take a certain igno- 
rance for foolishness. 

She had begun with a few experiments. He did 
not know French except ‘ sivverplay ,’ a phrase he 
seemed to regard as a very good light table joke in 
itself. His English was uncertain, but not such as 
books informed her distinguished the lower classes. 
His manners seemed to her good on the whole, but a 


174 


The Wheels of Chance 


trifle over- respectful and out of fashion. He called 
her ‘ Madam ’ once. He seemed a person of means 
and leisure, but he knew nothing of recent concerts, 
theatres, or books. How did he spend his time? 
He was certainly chivalrous, and a trifle simple- 
minded. She fancied (so much is there in a change 
of costume) that she had never met with such a man 
before. What could he be ? 

“ Mr. Benson,” she said, breaking a silence devoted 
to landscape. 

He rolled over and regarded her, chin on knuckles. 

“ At your service.” 

“ Do you paint? Are you an artist? ” 

“Well.” Judicious pause. “I should hardly call 
myself a Nartist, you know. I do paint a little. And 
sketch, you know — skitty kind of things.” 

He plucked and began to nibble a blade of grass. 
It was really not so much lying as his quick imagina- 
tion that prompted him to add, “ In Papers, you 
know, and all that.” 

“ I see,” said Jessie, looking at him thoughtfully. 
Artists were a very heterogeneous class certainly, and 
geniuses had a trick of being a little odd. He 
avoided her eye and bit his grass. “ I don’t do much , 
you know.” 

“ It’s not your profession? ” 

“ Oh, no,” said Hoopdriver, anxious now to hedge. 


The Wheecs of Chance 


175 


“ I don’t make a regular thing of it, you know. Jest 
now and then something comes into my head and 
down it goes. No — I’m not a regular artist.” 

“Then you don’t practise any regular profession?” 

Mr. Hoopdriver looked into her eyes and saw 
their quiet unsuspicious regard. He had vague ideas 
of resuming the detective role. “It’s like this,” he 
said, to gain time. “ I have a sort of profession. 
Only there’s a kind of reason — nothing much, you 
know — ” 

“ I beg your pardon for cross-examining you.” 

“ No trouble,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “ Only I 
can’t very well — I leave it to you, you know. I 
don’t want to make any mystery of it, so far as 
that goes.” Should he plunge boldly and be a bar- 
rister? That anyhow was something pretty good. 
But she might know about barristry. 

“ I think I could guess what you are.” 

“Well — guess,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

“You come from one of the colonies?” 

“ Dear me ! ” said Mr. Hoopdriver, veering round 
to the new wind. “How did you find out that?" 
(the man was born in a London suburb, dear 
Reader.) 

“ I guessed,” she said. 

He lifted his eyebrows as one astonished, and 
clutched a new piece of grass. 


76 


The Wheels of Chance 


“You were educated up country.” 

“ Good again,” said Hoopdriver, rolling over again 
into her elbow. “You’re a clairvoy ant.” He bit 
at the grass, smiling. “Which colony was it?” 

“That I don’t know.” 

“ You must guess,” said Hoopdriver. 

“ South Africa,” she said. “ I strongly incline to 
South Africa.” 

“ South Africa’s quite a large place,” he said. 

“But South Africa is right?” 

“You’re warm,” said Hoopdriver, “ anyhow,” and 
the while his imagination was eagerly exploring this 
new province. 

“South Africa is right?” she insisted. 

He turned over again and nodded, smiling reas- 
suringly into her eyes. 

“ What made me think of South Africa was that 
novel of Olive Shreiner’s, you know — The Story of 
an African Farm. Gregory Rose is so like you.” 

“I never read the Story of an African Farm,” 
said Hoopdriver. “I must. What’s he like?” 

“You must read the book. But it’s a wonderful 
place, with its mixture of races, and its brand-new 
civilisation jostling the old savagery. Were you near 
Khama?” 

“ He was a long way off from our place,” said 
Mr. Hoopdriver. “ We had a little ostrich farm, 


The Wheels 0/ Chance 177 

you know — Just a few hundred of ’em, out Johan- 
nesberg way.” 

“On the Karroo — was it called?” 

“ That’s the term. Some of it was freehold though. 
Luckily. We got along very well in the old days. 
— But there’s no ostriches on that farm now.” He 
had a diamond mine in his head, just at the mo- 
ment, but he stopped and left a little to the girl’s 
imagination. Besides which it had occurred to him 
with a kind of shock that he was lying. 

“What became of the ostriches?” 

“We sold ’em off, when we parted with the farm. 
Do you mind if I have another cigarette? That 
was when I was quite a little chap, you know, that 
we had this ostrich farm.” 

“Did you have Blacks and Boers about you?” 

“ Lots,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, striking a match on 
his instep and beginning to feel hot at the new re- 
sponsibility he had brought upon himself. 

“ How interesting ! Do you know, I’ve never 
been out of England except to Paris and Mentone 
and Switzerland.” 

“ One gets tired of travelling {puff) after a bit, 
of course.” 

“ You must tell me about your farm in South 
Africa. It always stimulates my imagination to think 
of these places. I can fancy all the tall ostriches 

N 


1 78 


The Wheels oj Chance 


being driven out by a black herd to — graze, I sup- 
pose. How do ostriches feed ? ” 

“ Well,” said Hoopdriver. “ That’s rather various. 
They have their fancies, you know. There’s fruit, 
of course, and that kind of thing. And chicken 
food,, and so forth. You have to use judgment.” 

“ Did you ever see a lion ? ” 

“ They weren’t very common in our district,” said 
Hoopdriver, quite modestly. “ But I’ve seen them, 
of course. Once or twice.” 

“ Fancy seeing a lion! Weren’t you frightened?” 

Mr. Hoopdriver was now thoroughly sorry he had 
accepted that offer of South Africa. He puffed his 
cigarette and regarded the Solent languidly as he 
settled the fate on that lion in his mind. “ I scarcely 
had time,” he said. “It all happened in a minute.” 

“ Go on,” she said. 

“ I was going across the inner paddock where the 
fatted ostriches were.” 

“Did you ^/ostriches, then? I did not know — ” 

“Eat them ! — often. Very nice they are too, 
properly stuffed. Well, we — I, rather — was going 
across this paddock, and I saw something standing 
up in the mooulight and looking at me.” Mr. Hoop- 
driver was in a hot perspiration now. His inven- 
tion seemed to have gone limp. “ Luckily I had 
my father’s gun with me. I was scared, though, I 


The Wheels of Chance 179 

can tell you. ( Puff ). I just aimed at the end that 
I thought was the head. And let fly. {Puff). And 
over it went, you know.” 

“ Dead ? ” 

“ As dead. It was one of the luckiest shots I ever 
fired. And I wasn’t much over nine at the time, 
neither.” 

“ / should have screamed and run away.” 

“ There’s some things you can’t run away from,” 
said Mr. Hoopdriver. “ To run would have been 
fatal.” 

“ I don’t think I ever met a lion-killer before,” she 
remarked, evidently with a heightened opinion of 
him. 

There was a pause. She seemed meditating further 
questions. Mr. Hoopdriver drew his watch hastily 
“ I say,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, showing it to her, 
“ Don’t you think we ought to be getting on? ” 

His face was flushed, his ears bright red. She 
ascribed his confusion to modesty. He rose with a 
lion added to the burthens of his conscience, and held 
out his hand to assist her. They walked down into 
Cosham again, resumed their machines, and went on 
at a leisurely pace along the northern shore of the big 
harbour. But Mr. Hoopdriver was no longer happy. 
This horrible, this fulsome lie, stuck in his memory. 
Why had he done it ? She did not ask for any more 


8 o 


The Wheels of Chance 


South African stories, happily — at least until Porches- 
ter was reached — but talked instead of Living One’s 
Own Life, and how custom hung on people like chains. 
She talked wonderfully, and set Hoopdriver’s mind 
fermenting. By the Castle, Mr. Hoopdriver caugh; 
several crabs in little shore pools. At Tareham they 
stopped for a second tea, and left the place towards 
the hour of sunset, under such invigorating circum- 
stances as you shall in due course hear. 


THE RESCUE EXPEDITION 


XXXI 

And now to tell of those energetic chevaliers, 
Widgery, Dangle, ^nd Phipps, and of that distressed 
beauty, ‘Thomas Plantagenet, ’ well known in society, 
so the paragraphs said, as Mrs. Milward. We left 
them at Midhurst station, if I remember rightly, 
waiting, in a state of fine emotion, for the Chichester 
train. It was clearly understood by the entire Rescue 
Party that Mrs. Milward was bearing up bravely 
against almost overwhelming grief. The three gen- 
tlemen outdid one another in sympathetic expedients; 
they watched her gravely — almost tenderly. The 
substantial Widgery tugged at his moustache, and 
looked his unspeakable feelings at her with those 
dog-like, brown eyes of his; the slender Dangle 
tugged at his moustache, and did what he could with 
unsympathetic grey ones. . Phipps, unhappily, had 
no moustache to run any risks with, so he folded his 
arms and talked in a brave, indifferent, bearing-up 
tone about the London, Brighton, and South Coast 
181 


1 82 The Wheels of Chance 

Railway, just to cheer the poor woman up a little. 
And even Mrs. Milward really felt that exalted mel- 
ancholy to the very bottom of her heart, and tried 
to show it in a dozen little, delicate, feminine ways. 

“There is nothing to do until we get to Chiches- 
ter,” said Dangle. “Nothing.” 

“Nothing,” said Widgery, and aside in her ear: 
“You really ate scarcely anything, you know.” 

“Their trains are always late,” said Phipps, with 
his fingers along the edge of his collar. 

Dangle, you must understand, was a sub-editor 
and reviewer, and his pride was to be Thomas Plan- 
tagenet’s intellectual companion. Widgery, the big 
man, was manager of a bank and a mighty golfer, 
and his conception of his relations to her never came 
into his mind without those charming, old lines, 
“Douglas, Douglas, tender and true,” falling hard 
upon its heels. His name was Douglas — Douglas 
Widgery. And Phipps, Phipps was a medical stu- 
dent still, and he felt that he laid his heart at her 
feet, the heart of a man of the world. She was kind 
to them all in her way, and insisted on their being 
friends together, in spite of a disposition to recip- 
rocal criticism they displayed. Dangle thought 
Widgery a Philistine, appreciating but coarsely the 
merits of “A Soul Untrammelled,” and Widgery 
thought Dangle lacked humanity — would talk insin- 


The Wheels of Chance 183 

cerely to say a clever thing. Both Dangle and 
Widgery thought Phipps a bit of a cub, and Phipps 
thought both Dangle and Widgery a couple of 
thundering bounders. 

“They would have got to Chichester in time for 
lunch,” said Dangle, in the train. “After, perhaps. 
And there’s no sufficient place in the road. So soon 
as we get there, Phipps must inquire at the chief 
hotels to see if any one answering to her description 
has lunched there.” 

“Oh, I'll inquire.” said Phipps. “Willingly. I 
suppose you and Widgery will just hang about — ” 

He saw an expression of pain on Mrs. Milward’s 
gentle face, and stopped abruptly. 

“No,” said Dangle, “we shan’t hang about , as you 
put it. There are two places in Chicheser where 
tourists might go — the cathedral and a remakably 
fine museum. I shall go to the cathedral and make 
an inquiry or so, while Widgery — ” 

“The museum. Very well. And after that there’s 
a little thing or two I’ve thought of myself,” said 
Widgery. 

To begin with they took Mrs. Milward in a kind 
of procession to the Red Hotel and established her 
there with some tea. “You are so kind to me,” she 
said. “All of you.” They signified that it was 
nothing, and dispersed to their inquiries. By six 


184 The Wheels of Chance 

they returned, their zeal a little damped, without news 
Widgery came back with Dangle. Phipps was the 
last to return. “You’re quite sure,” said Widgery, 
“that there isn’t any flaw in that inference of yours?” 

“Quite,” said Dangle, rather shortly. 

“Of course,” said Widgery, “their starting from 
Midhurst on the Chichester road doesn’t absolutely 
bind them not to change their minds.” 

“My dear fellow! It does. Really it does. You 
must allow me to have enough intelligence to think 
of cross-roads. Really you must. There aren’t any 
cross-roads to tempt them. Would they turn aside 
here? No. Would they turn there? Many more 
things are inevitable than you fancy.” 

“We shall see at once,” said Widgery, at the win- 
dow. “ Here comes Phipps. For my own part — ” 

“Phipps!” s$id Mrs. Milward. “ Is he hurrying? 
Does he look — ” She rose in her eagerness, biting 
her trembling lip, and went towards the window. 

“No news,” said Phipps, entering. 

“Ah!” said Widgery. 

“None?” said Dangle. 

“Well,” said Phipps. “One fellow had got hold 
of a queer story of a man in bicycling clothes, who 
was asking the same question about this time yester- 
day.” 

“What question?” said Mrs. Milward, in the 


The Wheels of Chance 185 

shadow of the window. She spoke in a low voice, 
almost a whisper. 

“ Why — Have you seen a young lady in a grey 
bicycling costume? ” 

Dangle caught at his lower lip. “What’s that?” 
he said. “Yesterday! A man asking after her 
then ! What can that mean? ” 

“Heaven knows,” said Phipps, sitting down 
wearily. “You’d better infer.” 

“What kind of man?” said Dangle. 

“How should I know? — in bicycling costume, 
the fellow said.” 

“ But what height ? — What complexion ? ” 

“Didn’t ask,” said Phipps. 

“ Didn't ask! Nonsense,” said Dangle. 

“Ask him yourself,” said Phipps. “He’s an 
ostler chap in the White Hart, — short, thick-set 
fellow, with a red face and a crusty manner. Smells 
of whiskey. Go and ask him.” 

“Of course,” said Dangle, taking his straw hat 
from the shade over the stuffed bird on the cheffonier 
and turning towards the door. “ I might have 
known.” 

Phipps’ mouth opened and shut. 

“You’re tired, I’m sure, Mr. Phipps,” said the 
lady, soothingly. “Let me ring for some tea for 
you.” It suddenly occurred to Phipps that he had 


86 


The Wheels of Chance 


lapsed a little from his chivalry. “I was a little 
annoyed at the way he rushed me to do all this 
business,” he said. “But I’d do a hundred times 
as much if it would bring you any nearer to her.” 
Pause. “I would like a little tea.” 

“I don’t want to raise any false hopes,” said 
Widgery. “But I do not believe they even came 
to Chichester. Dangle ’s a very clever fellow, of 
course, but sometimes these Inferences of his — ” 

“Tchak!” said Phipps, suddenly. 

“What is it?” said Mrs. Milward. 

“Something I’ve forgotten. I went right out from 
here, went to every other hotel in the place, and 
never thought — But never mind. I’ll ask when 
the waiter comes.” 

“You don’t mean — ” 

A tap, and the door opened. “Tea, m’m? yes, 
m’m,” said the waiter. 

“One minute,” said Phipps. “Was a lady in 
grey, a cycling lady — ” 

“Stopped here yesterday? Yessir. Stopped the 
night. With her brother, sir — a young gent.” 

“ Brother ! ” said Mrs. Milward, in a low tone. 
“Thank God!” 

The waiter glanced at her and understood every- 
thing. “A young gent, sir,” he said, “very free 
with his money. Give the name of Beaumont.” 


The Wheels of Chance 


1 87 


He proceeded to some rambling particulars, and was 
cross-examined by YVidgery on the plans of the 
young couple. 

“Havant! Where’s Havant?” said Phipps. “I 
seem to remember it somewhere.” 

“Was the man tall?” said Mrs. Milward, intently, 
“distinguished looking? with a long, flaxen mous- 
tache? and spoke with a drawl?” * 

“Well,” said the waiter, and thought. “His 
moustache, m’m, was scarcely long — scrubby more, 
and young looking.” 

“About thirty-five, he was?” 

“No, m’m. More like five and twenty. Not 
that.” 

“Dear me!” said Mrs. Milward, speaking in a 
curious, hollow voice, fumbling for her salts, and 
showing the finest self-control. “ It must have been 
her younger brother — must have been.” 

“That will do, thank you,” said Widgery, offi- 
ciously, feeling that she would be easier under this 
new surprise if the man were dismissed. The waiter 
turned to go, and almost collided with Dangle, who 
was entering the room, panting excitedly and with a 
pocket handkerchief held to his right eye. “ Hullo ! ” 
said Dangle. “What’s up? ” 

“What’s up wiXhyou ?” said Phipps. 

“Nothing — an altercation merely with that 


1 88 The Wheels of Chance 

drunken ostler of yours. He thought it was a plot 
to annoy him, that the Yonug Lady in Grey was 
mythical. Judged from your manner. I’ve got a 
piece of raw meat to keep over it. You have some 
news, I see? ” 

“Did the man hit you? ” asked Widgery. 

Mrs. Milward rose and approached Dangle. 
“Cannot I do anything? ” 

Dangle was heroic. “Only tell me your news,” 
he said, round the corner of the handkerchief. 

“It was in this way,” said Phipps, and explained 
rather sheepishly. While he was doing so, with a 
running fire of commentary from Widgery, the waiter 
brought in a tray of tea. “A time table,” said 
Dangle, promptly, “for Havant.” Mrs. Milward 
poured two cups, and Phipps and Dangle partook 
in passover form. They caught the train by a hair’s- 
breath. So to Havant and inquiries. 

Dangle was puffed up to find that his guess of 
Havant was right. In view of the fact that beyond 
Havant the Southampton road has a steep hill con- 
tinuously on the right-hand side, and the sea on the 
left, he hit upon a mignificent scheme for heading 
the young folks off. He and Mrs. Milward would 
go to Fareham, Widgery and Phipps should alight 
one each at the intermediate stations of Cosham and 
Porchester, and come on by the next train if they 


The Wheels of Chance 189 

had no news. If they did not come on, a wire to 
the Fareham post office was to explain why. It was 
Napoleonic, and more than consoled Dangle for the 
open derision of the Havant street boys at the hand- 
kerchief which still protected his damaged eye. 

Moreover, the scheme answered to perfection. 
The fugitives escaped by a hair’s-breadth. They 
were outside the Golden Anchor at Fareham, and 
preparing to mount, as Mrs. Milward and Dangle 
came round the corner from the station. “It’s 
her ! ” said Mrs. Milward, and would have screamed. 
“Hist!” said Dangle, gripping the lady’s arm, 
removing his handkerchief in his excitement, and 
leaving the piece of meat over his eye, an extraor- 
dinary appearance which seemed unexpectedly to 
calm her. “ Be cool ! ” said Dangle, glaring under the 
meat. “They must not see us. They will get away 
else. Were there flys at the station?” The young 
couple mounted and vanished round the corner of 
the Winchester road. Had it not been for the pub- 
licity of the business, Mrs. Milward would have 
fainted. “ Save her!” she said. 

“Ah! A conveyance,” said Dangle. “One 
minute.” 

He left her in a most pathetic attitude, with 
her hand pressed to her heart, and rushed into 
the Golden Anchor. Dog cart in ten minutes. 


190 The Wheels of Chance 

Emerged. The meat had gone now, and one saw 
the cooling puffiness over his eye. “ I will conduct 
you back to the station,” said Dangle; “ hurry back 
here, and pursue them. You will meet Widgery 
and Phipps and tell them I am in pursuit.” 

She was whirled back to the railway station and 
left there, on a hard, blistered, wooden seat in the 
sun. She felt tired and dreadfully ruffled and 
agitated and dusty. Dangle was, no doubt, most 
energetic and devoted ; but for a kindly, helpful 
manner commend her to Douglas Widgery. 

Meanwhile Dangle, his face golden in the evening 
sun, was driving (as well as he could) a large, black 
horse harnessed into a thing called a gig, north- 
westward towards Winchester. Dangle, barring his 
swollen eye, was a refined-looking little man, and 
he wore a deerstalker cap and was dressed in dark 
grey. His neck was long and slender. Perhaps you 
know what gigs are, — huge, big, wooden things and 
very high ; and the horse, too, was huge and big and 
high, with knobby legs, a long face, a hard mouth, 
and a whacking trick of pacing. Smack, smack, 
smack, smack it went along the road, and hard by 
the church it shied vigorously at a hooded per- 
ambulator. 

The history of the Rescue Expedition now 
becomes confused. It appears that Widgery was 


The Wheels of Chance 19 1 

extremely indignant to find Mrs. Milward left about 
upon the Fareham platform. The day had irritated 
him somehow, though he had started with the noblest 
intentions, and he seemed glad to find an outlet for 
justifiable indignation. “He’s such a spasmodic 
creature,” said Widgery. “Rushing off! And I 
suppose we’re to wait here until he comes back! 
It’s likely. He’s so egotistical, is Dangle. Always 
wants to mismanage everything himself.” 

“He means to help me,” said Mrs. Milward, a 
little reproachfully, touching his arm. 

Widgery was hardly in the mood to be mollified 
all at once. “He need not prevent mef he said, 
and stopped. “It’s no good talking, you know, and 
you are tired.” 

“I can go on,” she said brightly; “if only we 
find her.” 

“While I was cooling my heels in Cosham I 
bought a county map.” He produced and opened 
it. “Here, you see, is the road out of Fareham.” 
He proceeded with the calm deliberation of a busi- 
ness man to develop a proposal of taking train 
forthwith to Winchester. “They must be going to 
Winchester,” he explained. It was inevitable. 
To-morrow Sunday, Winchester a cathedral town, 
road going nowhere else of the slightest importance. 

“ But Mr. Dangle? ” 


192 The Wheels of Chance 

“He will simply go on until he has to pass some- 
thing, and then he will break his neck. I have seen 
Dangle drive before. It’s scarcely likely a dog-cart, 
especially a hired dog-cart, will overtake bicycles in 
the cool of the evening. Rely upon me, Mrs. Mil- 
ward — ” 

“I am in your hands,” she said, with pathetic 
littleness, looking up at him, and for the moment he 
forgot the exasperation of the day. 

Phipps, during this conversation, had stood in a 
somewhat depressed attitude, leaning on his stick, 
feeling his collar, and looking from one speaker to 
the other. The idea of leaving Dangle behind 
seemed to him an excellent one. “We might leave 
a message at the place where he got the dog-cart,” 
he suggested, when he saw their eyes meeting. 
There was a cheerful alacrity about all three at the 
proposal. 

But they never got beyond Botley. For even as 
their train ran into the station, a mighty rumbling 
was heard, there was a shouting overhead, the guard 
stood astonished on the platform, and Phipps, thrust- 
ing his head out of the window, cried, “There he 
goes ! ” and sprang out of the carriage. Mrs. Mil- 
ward, following in alarm, just saw it. From Widgery 
it was hidden. Botley station lies in a cutting, over- 
head was the roadway, and across the lemon yellows 


The Wheels of Chance 


93 


and flushed pinks of the sunset, there whirled a great 
black mass, a horse like a long-nosed chess knight, 
the upper works of a gig, and Dangle in transit from 
front to back. A monstrous shadow aped him across 
the cutting. It was the event of a second. Dangle 
seemed to jump, hang in the air momentarily, and 
vanish, and after a moment’s pause came a heart- 
rending smash. Then two black heads running 
swiftly. 

“Better get out,” said Phipps to Mrs. Milward, 
who stood fascinated in the doorway. 

In another moment all three were hurrying up the 
steps. They found Dangle, hatless, standing up 
with cut hands extended, having his hands brushed 
by an officious small boy. A broad, ugly road ran 
downhill in a long vista, and in the distance was a 
little group of Botley inhabitants holding the big, 
black horse. Even at that distance they could see 
the expression of conscious pride on the monster’s 
visage. It was as wooden-faced a horse as you can 
imagine. The beasts in the Tower of London, on 
which the men in armour are perched, are the only 
horses I have ever seen at all like it. However, we 
are not concerned now with the horse, but with 
Dangle. “Hurt?” asked Phipps, eagerly, leading. 

“ Mr. Dangle ! ” cried Mrs. Milward, clasping her 
hands. 


o 


194 


The Wheels of Chance 


“ Hullo ! ” said Dangle, not surprised in the 
slightest. “Glad you’ve come. I may want you. 
Bit of a mess I’m in- — eigh? But I’ve caught ’em. 
At the very place I expected, too.” 

“Caught them!” said Widgery. “Where are 
they?” 

“Up there,” he said, with a backward motion of 
his head. “About a mile up the hill. I left ’em. 
I had to.” 

“I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Milward, with that 
rapt, painful look again. “ Have you found Jessie? ” 

“ I have. I wish I could wash the gravel out of 
my hands somewhere. It was like this, you know. 
Came on them suddenly round a corner. Horse 
shied at the bicycles. They were sitting by the 
roadside botanising flowers. I just had time to 
shout, ‘Jessie Milward, we’ve been looking for you,’ 
and then that confounded brute bolted. I didn’t 
dare turn round. I had all my work to do to save 
myself being turned over, as it was — so long as I 
did, I mean. I just shouted, ‘Return to your 
friends. All will be forigven.’ And off I came, 
clatter, clatter. Whether they heard — ” 

“ Take me to herf said Mrs. Milward, with 
intensity, turning towards Widgery. 

“Certainly,” said Widgery, suddenly becoming 
active. “How far is it, Dangle?” 


The Wheels of Chance 


*95 


“Mile and a half or two miles. I was deter- 
mined to find them, you know. I say though — 
Look at my hands T But I beg your pardon, Mrs. 
Milward.” He turned to Phipps. “Phipps, I say, 
where shall I wash the gravel out? And have a look 
at my knee? ” 

“There’s the station,” said Phipps, becoming 
helpful. Dangle made a step, and a damaged knee 
became evident. “Take my arm,” said Phipps. 

“Where can we get a conveyance?” asked Wid- 
gery of two small boys. 

The two small boys failed to understand. They 
looked at one another. 

“There’s not a cab, not a go-cart, in sight,” said 
Widgery. “It’s a case of a horse, a horse, my king- 
dom for a horse.” 

“Don’t you know where we can hire traps?” he 
asked of the small boys. 

“Or a cart or — anything?” asked Mrs. Milward. 

“John Ooker’s gart a cart, but no one can’t 
’ire’n,” said the larger of the small boys, partially 
averting his face and staring down the road and 
making a song of it. “And so’s my feyther, for’s 
leg us broke.” 

“Not a cart even! Evidently. What shall we 
do?” 

It occurred to Mrs. Milward that if Widgery was 


96 


The Wheels of Chance 


the man for courtly devotion, Dangle was infin- 
itely readier of resource. “ I suppose — ” she 
said, timidly. “Perhaps if you were to ask Mr. 
Dangle — ” 

And then all the gilt came off Widgery. He 
answered quite rudely. “ Confound Dangle ! Hasn’t 
he messed us up enough? He must needs drive 
after them in a trap to tell them we’re coming, and 
now you want me to ask him — ” 

Her beautiful blue eyes were filled with tears. He 
stopped abruptly. “I’ll go and ask Dangle,” he 
said, shortly. “If you wish it.” And went striding 
into the station and down the steps, leaving her in 
the road under the quiet inspection of the two little 
boys, with a kind of ballad refrain in her head, 
“Where are the Knights of the Olden Time?” and 
feeling tired to death and hungry and dusty and out 
of curl, and, in short, a martyr woman. 


XXXII 


It goes to my heart to tell of the end of that day, 
how the fugitives vanished into Immensity ; how 
there were no more trains ; how Botley stared unsym- 
pathetically with a palpable disposition to derision, 
denying conveyances ; how the landlord of the Heron 
was suspicious, how the next day was Sunday, and 
the hot summer’s day had crumpled the collar of 
Phipps and stained the skirts of Mrs. Milward, and 
dimmed the radiant emotions of the whole party. 
Dangle, with sticking-plaster and a black eye, felt 
the absurdity of the pose of the Wounded Knight, 
and abandoned it after the faintest efforts. Re- 
criminations never, perhaps, held the foreground of 
the talk, but they played like summer lightning on 
the edge of the conversation. And deep in the 
hearts of all was a galling sense of the ridiculous. 
Jessie, they thought, was most to blame. Appar- 
ently, too, the worst, which would have made the 
whole business tragic, was not happening. Here 
was a young woman — young woman do I say ? a 
mere girl!. — had chosen to leave a comfortable 
197 


198 


The Wheels of Chance 


home in Surbiton, and all the delights of a refined 
and intellectual circle, and had rushed off, trailing 
us after her, posing hard, mutually jealous, and now 
tired and weather-worn, to flick us off at last, mere 
mud from her wheel, into this detestable village 
beer-house on a Saturday night ! And she had done 
it, not for Love and Passion, which are serious 
excuses one may recognise even if one must repro- 
bate, but just for a Freak, just for a fantastic Idea ; 
for nothing, in fact, but the outraging of Common 
Sense. Yet withal, such was our restraint, that we 
talked of her still as one much misguided, as one 
who burthened us with anxiety, as a lamb astray, and 
Mrs. Milward having eaten, continued to show the 
finest feelings on the matter. 

She sat, I may mention, in the cushioned basket- 
chair, the only comfortable chair in the room, and 
we sat on incredibly hard, horsehair things having 
antimaccassars tied to their backs by means of lemon- 
coloured bows. It was different from those dear 
old talks at Surbiton, somehow. She sat facing the 
window, which was open (the night was so tranquil 
and warm), and the dim light — for we did not use 
the lamp — suited her admirably. She talked in a 
voice that told you she was tired, and she seemed 
inclined to state a case against herself in the matter 
of “A Soul Untrammelled.” It was such an evening 


The Wheels of Chance 


199 


as might live in a sympathetic memoir, but it was a 
little dull while it lasted. 

“I feel,” she said, “that I am to blame. I have 
Developed. That first book of mine — I do not 
go back upon a word of it, mind, but it has been 
misunderstood, misapplied.” 

“It has,” said Widgery, trying to look so sympa- 
thetic as to be visible in the dark. “ Deliberately 
misunderstood.” 

“Don’t say that,” said the lady. “Not deliber- 
ately. I try and think that critics are honest. After 
their lights. I was not thinking of critics. But she, 
I mean — ” She paused, an interrogation. 

“It is possible,” said Dangle, scrutinising his 
sticking-plaster. 

“ I write a book and state a case. I want people 
to think as I recommend, not to do as I recom- 
mend. . It is just Teaching. Only I make it into a 
story. I want to Teach new Ideas, new Lessons, to 
promulgate Ideas. Then, when the Ideas have been 
spread abroad — Things will come about. Only 
now it is madness to fly in the face of the established 
order. Bernard Shaw, you know, has explained that 
with regard to Socialism. We all know that to earn 
all you consume is right, and that living on invested 
capital is wrong. Only we cannot begin while we 
are so few. It is Those Others.” 


200 


The Wheels of Chance 


“Precisely,” said Widgery. “It is Those Others. 
They must begin first.” 

“And meanwhile you go on banking — ” 

“If I didn’t, some one else would.” 

“And I live on Mr. Milward’s Lotion while I try 
to gain a footing in Literature.” 

“ Try / ” said Phipps. “You have done so.” 
And, “That’s different,” said Dangle, at the same 
time. 

“You are so kind to me. But in this matter. Of 
course Georgina Griffiths in my book lived alone in 
a flat in Paris and went to life classes and had men 
visitors, but then she was over twenty-one.” 

“Jessica is only eighteen, and girlish for that,” 
said Dangle. 

“ It alters everything. That child ! It is different 
with a woman. And Georgina Griffiths never flaunted 
her freedom — on a bicycle, in country places. In 
this country. Where every one is so particular. 
Fancy, sleeping away from home. It’s dreadful — 
If it gets about it spells ruin for her.” 

“Ruin,” said Widgery. 

“No man would marry a girl like that,” said 
Phipps. 

“It must be hushed up,” said Dangle. 

“It always seems to me that life is made up of 
individuals, of individual cases. We must weigh 


The Wheels of Chance 


201 


each person against his or her circumstances. Gen- 
eral rules don’t apply — ” 

“I often feel the force of that,” said Widgery. 
“Those are my rules. Of course my books — ” 
“It’s different, altogether different,” said Dangle. 
“A novel deals with typical cases.” 

“And life is not typical,” said Widgery, with 
immmense profundity. 

Then suddenly, unintentionally, being himself 
most surprised and shocked of any in the room, 
Phipps yawned. The failing was infectious, and 
the gathering having, as you can easily understand, 
talked itself weary, dispersed on trival pretences. 
But not to sleep immediately. Directly Dangle was 
alone he began, with infinite disgust, to scrutinise 
his darkling eye, for he was a neat-minded little 
man in spite of his energy. The whole business — • 
so near a capture — was horribly vexatious. Phipps 
sat on his bed for some time examining, with equal 
disgust, a collar he would have thought incredible 
for Sunday twenty-four hours before. Mrs. Milward 
fell a-musing on the mortality of even big, fat men 
with dog-like eyes, and Widgery was unhappy because 
he had been so cross to her at the station, and be- 
cause so far he did not feel that he had scored over 
Dangle. Also he was angry with Dangle. And all 
four of them, being souls living very much upon the 


202 


The Wheels of Chance 


appearances of things, had a painful, mental middle 
distance of Botley derisive and suspicious, and a 
remoter background of London humorous, and Sur- 
biton speculative. Were they really, after all, 
behaving absurdly? But to follow characters into 
their bedrooms is a trick that requires checking in a 
novelist. We leave the Rescue Expedition at this 
stage. 


THE ABASEMENT OF MR. HOOPDRIVER 


XXXII 

On Monday morning the two fugitives found 
themselves breakfasting at the Golden Pheasant in 
Blandford. They were in the course of an elaborate 
doubling movement through Dorsetshire towards 
Ringwood, where Jessie anticipated an answer from 
her schoolmistress friend. By this time they had 
been nearly sixty hours together, and you will under- 
stand that Mr. Hoopdriver’s feelings had undergone 
a considerable intensification and development. At 
first Jessie had been only an impressionist sketch 
upon his mind, something feminine, active, and 
dazzling, something emphatically “above” him, cast 
into his company by a kindly fate. His chief idea, 
at the outset, as you know, had been to live up to 
her level, by pretending to be more exceptional, 
more wealthy, better educated, and, above all, better 
born than he was. His knowledge of the feminine 
mind was almost entirely derived from the young 
ladies he had met in business, and in that class 
203 


204 


The Wheels of Chance 


(as in military society and among gentlemen’s ser- 
vants) the good old tradition of a brutal social 
exclusiveness is still religiously preserved. He had 
an almost intolerable dread of her thinking him a 
‘ bounder. ’ Later he began to perceive the distinc- 
tion of her idiosyncracies. Coupled with a magifi- 
cent want of experience was a splendid enthusiasm 
for abstract views of the most advanced description, 
and her strength of conviction completely carried 
Hoopdriver away. She was going to Live her Own 
Life, with emphasis, and Mr. Hoopdriver was pro- 
foundly stirred to similar resolves. So soon as he 
grasped the tenor of her views, he perceived that he 
himself had thought as much from his earliest years. 
“Of course,” he remarked, in a flash of sexual pride, 
“a man is freer than a woman. End in the Col- 
onies, y’know, there isn’t half the Conventionality 
you find in society in this country.” 

He made one or two essays in the display of 
unconventionality, and was quite unaware that he 
impressed her as a narrow-minded person. He 
suppressed the habits of years and made no proposal 
to go to church. He discussed church-going in a 
liberal spirit. “It’s jest a habit,” he said, “jest a 
custom. I don’t see what good it does you at all, 
really.” And he made a lot of excellent jokes at 
the chimney-pot hat, jokes he had read in the Globe 


The Wheels of Chance 


205 


‘turnovers’ on that subject. But he showed - his 
gentle breeding by keeping his gloves on all through 
the Sunday’s ride, and ostentatiously throwing away 
more than half a cigarette when they passed a church 
whose congregation was gathering for afternoon ser- 
vice. He cautiously avoided literary topics, except 
by way of compliment, seeing that she was presently 
to be writing books. 

It was on Jessie’s initiative that they attended 
service in the old-fashioned gallery of Blandford 
church. Jessie’s conscience, I may perhaps tell 
you, was now suffering the severest twinges. She 
perceived clearly that things were not working out 
quite along the lines she had designed. She had 
read her Olive Schreiner and George Egerton, and 
so forth, with all the want of perfect comprehension 
of one who is still emotionally a girl. She knew the 
thing to do was to have a flat and to go the British 
Museum and write leading articles for the daily 
papers until something better came along. If 
Bechamel (detestable person) had kept his promises, 
instead of behaving with unspeakable horridness, all 
would have been well. Now, her only hope was that 
liberal-minded woman, Miss Mergle, who, a year 
ago, had sent her out, highly educated, into the 
world. Miss Mergle had told her at parting to live 
fearlessly and truly, and had further given her a 


206 


The Wheels of Chance 


volume of Emerson’s Essays and Motley’s “Dutch 
Republic,” to help her through the rapids of adoles- 
cence. 

Jessie’s feelings for her stepmother’s household at 
Surbiton amounted to an active detestation. There 
are no graver or more solemn women in the world 
than these clever girls whose scholastic advancement 
has retarded their feminine coquetry. In spite of 
the advanced tone of * Thomas. Plantagenet’s ’ anti- 
marital novel, Jessie had speedily seen through that 
amiable woman’s amiable defences. The variety of 
pose necessitated by the coips of ‘Men’ annoyed 
her to an altogether unreasonable degree. To return 
to this life of ridiculous unreality — unconditional 
capitulation to ‘ Conventionality ’ was an exasperat- 
ing prospect. Yet what else was there to do? 

You will understand, therefore, that at times she 
was moody (and Mr. Hoopdriver respectfully silent 
and attentive) anti at times inclined to eloquent 
denunciation of the existing order of things. She 
was a Socialist, Hoopdriver learnt, and he gave a 
vague intimation that he went further, intending, 
thereby, no less than the horrors of anarchism. He 
would have owned up to the destruction of the Winter 
Palace indeed, had he had the faintest idea where the 
Winter Palace was, and had his assurance amounted 
to certainty that the Winter Palace was destroyed. 


The Wheels of Chance 


20 7 


He agreed with her cordially that the position of 
women was intolerable, but checked himself on the 
verge of the proposition that a girl ought not to 
expect a fellow to hand down boxes for her when he 
was getting the swap from a customer. It was 
Jessie’s preoccupation with her own perplexities, no 
doubt, that delayed the unveiling of Mr. Hoopdriver 
all through Saturday and Sunday. Once or twice, 
however, there were incidents that put him about 
terribly — even questions that savoured of suspicion. 

On Sunday night, for no conceivable reason, an 
unwonted wakefulness came upon him. Unaccount- 
ably he realised he was a contemptible liar. All 
through the small hours of Monday he reviewed the 
tale of his falsehoods, and when he tried to turn his 
mind from that, the financial problem suddenly rose 
upon him. He heard two o’clock strike, and three. 


XXXIII 


“Good morning, Madam,” said Hoopdriver, as 
Jessie came into the breakfast room of the Golden 
Pheasant on Monday morning, and he smiled, 
bowed, rubbed his hands together, and pulled out a 
chair for her, and rubbed his hands again. 

She stopped abrupt 1 , with a puzzled expression on 
her face. “Where have I seen that before?” she 
said. 

“The chair?” said Hoopdriver, flushing. 

“No — the attitude.” 

She came forward and shook hands with him, 
looking the while curiously into his face. “And 
— Madam?” 

“It’s a habit,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, guiltily. 
“A bad habit. Calling ladies Madam. You must 
put it down to our colonial roughness. Out there — 
up country — y’know — the ladies — so rare — we 
call ’em all Madam.” 

“You have some funny habits, brother Chris,” said 
Jessie. “Before you sell your diamond shares and 
go into society, as you say, and stand for Parliament 
208 


The Wheels of Chance 


209 


— What a fine thing it is to be a man! — you must 
cure yourself. That habit of bowing as you do, and 
rubbing your hands, and looking expectant.” 

“It’s a habit.” 

“I know. But I don’t think it a good one. 
You don’t mind my telling you? ” 

“Not a bit. I’m grateful.” 

“I’m blessed or afflicted with a trick of observa- 
tion,” said Jessie, looking at the breakfast table. Mr. 
Hoopdriver put his hand to his moustache and then, 
thinking this might be another habit, checked his 
arm and stuck his hand into his pocket. He felt 
juiced awkward, to use his private formula. Jessie’s 
eye wandered to the armchair, where a piece of 
binding was loose, and possibly to carry out her 
theory of an observant disposition, she turned and 
asked him for a pin. 

Mr. Hoopdriver’ s hand fluttered instinctively to 
his lappel, and there, planted by habit, were a couple 
of stray pins he had impounded. 

“ What an odd place to put pins ! ” exclaimed 
Jessie, taking it. 

“ It’s andy,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “ I saw a chap 
in a shop do it once.” 

“You must have a careful disposition,” she said, 
over her shoulder, kneeling down to the chair. 

“ In the centre of Africa — up country, that is — 

p 


210 


The Wheels of Chance 


one learns to value pins,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, after 
a perceptible pause. “There weren’t over many 
pins in Africa. They don’t lie about on the ground 
there.” His face was now in a fine, red glow. 
Where would the draper break out next? He thrust 
his hands into his coat pockets, then took one out 
again, furtively removed the second pin and dropped 
it behind him gently. It fell with a loud ‘ping ’ on 
the fender. Happily she made no remark, being 
preoccupied with the binding of the chair. 

Mr. Hoopdriver, instead of sitting down, went up 
to the table and stood against it, with his finger-tips 
upon the cloth. They were keeping breakfast a tre- 
mendous time. He took up his rolled serviette, 
looked closely and scrutinisingly at the ring, then 
put his hand under the fold of the napkin and exam- 
ined the texture, and put the thing down again. 
Then he had a vague impulse to finger his hollow 
wisdom tooth — happily checked. He suddenly dis- 
covered he was standing as if the table was a counter, 
and sat down forthwith. He drummed with his hand 
on the table. He felt dreadfully hot and self-con- 
scious. 

“Breakfast is late,” said Jessie, standing up. 

“Isn’t it?” 

Conversation was slack. Jessie wanted to know 
the distance to Ringwood. Then silence fell again. 


The Wheels of Chance 2 1 1 

Mr. Hoopdriver, very uncomfortable and studying 
an easy bearing, looked again at the breakfast things 
and then idly lifted the corner of the tablecloth on 
the ends of his fingers, and regarded it. “Fifteen 
three,” he thought, privately. 

“Why do you do that? ” said Jessie. 

“ What?"' said Hoopdriver, dropping the tablecloth 
convulsively. 

“Look at the cloth like that. I saw you do it 
yesterday, too.” 

Mr. Hoopdriver’ s face became quite a bright red. 
He began pulling his moustache nervously. “ I 
know,” he said. “I know. It’s a queer habit, I 
know. But out there, you know, there’s native ser- 
vants, you know, and — it’s a queer thing to talk 
about — but one has to look at things to see, don’t 
y’know, whether they’re quite.clean or not. It’s got 
to be a habit.” 

“ How odd ! ” said Jessie. 

“Isn’t it?” mumbled Hoopdriver. 

“If I were a Sherlock Holmes,” said Jessie, “I 
suppose I could have told you were a colonial from 
little things like that. But anyhow, I guessed it, 
didn’t I?” 

“Yes,” said Hoopdriver, in a melancholy tone, 
“you guessed it.” 

Why not seize the opportunity for a neat confes- 


212 


The Wheels of Chance 


sion, and add, “unhappily in this case you guessed 
wrong.” Did she suspect? Then, at the psycholog- 
ical moment, the girl bumped the door open with her 
tray and brought in the coffee and scrambled eggs. 

“ I am rather lucky with my intuitions, sometimes,” 
said Jessie. 

Remorse that had been accumulating in his mind 
for two days surged to the top of his mind. What a 
shabby liar he was ! 

And, besides, he must sooner or later, inevitably, 
give himself away. 


XXXIV 


Mr. Hoopdriver helped the eggs and then, instead 
of beginning, sat with his cheek on his hand, watching 
Jessie pour out the coffee. His ears were a bright 
red, and his eyes bright. He took his coffee cup 
clumsily, cleared his throat, suddenly leant back in 
his chair, and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. 
“ I’ll do it,” he said aloud. 

“Do what?” said Jessie, looking up in surprise 
over the coffee pot. She was just beginning her 
scrambled egg. 

“ Own up.” 

“ Own what? ” 

“Miss Milward — I’m a liar.” 

He put his head on one side and regarded her with 
a frown of tremendous resolution. Then in measured 
accents, and moving his head slowly from side to 
side, he announced, “Ay’m a deraper.” 

“You’re a draper? I thought — ” 

“ You thought wrong. But it’s bound to come up. 
Pins, attitude, habits — It’s plain enough. 

“ I’m a draper’s assistant let out for a ten-days 
213 


214 


The Wheels of Chance 


holiday. Jest a draper’s assistant. Not much, is it? 
A counter-jumper.” 

“ A draper’s assistant isn’t a position to be ashamed 
of,” she said, recovering, and not quite understanding 
yet what this all meant. 

“Yes, it is,” he said, “for a man, in this country, 
now. To be just another man’s hand, as I am. To 
have to wear what clothes you are told, and go to 
church to please customers, and work — There’s no 
other kind of men stand such hours. A drunken 
bricklayer’s a King to it.” 

“ But why are you telling me this, now? ” 

“ It’s important you should know at once.” 

“ But, Mr. Benson — ” 

“That isn’t all. If you don’t mind my speaking 
about myself a bit, there’s a few things I’d like to tell 
you. I can’t go on deceiving you. My name’s not 
Benson. Why I told you Benson, I don't know. 
Except that I’m a kind of fool. Well — I wanted 
somehow to seem more than I was. My name’s 
Hoopdriver.” 

“Yes?” 

“And that about South Africa — and that lion.” 

“ Well?” 

“ Lies.” 

“ Lies ! ” 

“And the discovery of diamonds on the ostrich 


The Wheels of Chance 


215 


farm. Lies too. And all the reminiscences of the 
giraffes — lies too. I never rode on no giraffes. I’d 
be afraid.” 

He looked at her with a kind of sullen satis- 
faction. He had eased his conscience, anyhow. She 
regarded him in infinite perplexity. This was a 
new side altogether to the man. “ But why,” she 
began. 

“ Why did I tell you such things? / don’t know. 
Silly sort of chap, I expect. I suppose I wanted to 
impress you. But somehow, now, I want you to know 
the truth.” 

Silence. Breakfast untouched. “ I thought I’d 
tell you,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “ I suppose it’s 
snobbishness and all that kind of thing, as much as 
anything. I lay awake pretty near all last night 
thinking about myself ; thinking what a got-up imita- 
tion of a man I was, and all that.” 

“ And you haven’t any diamond shares, and you 
are not going into Parliament, and you’re not — ” 

“ All Lies,” said Hoopdriver, in a sepulchral voice. 
“ Lies from beginning to end. ’Ow I came to tell 
’em I don't know.” 

She stared at him blankly. 

“ I never set eyes on Africa in my life,” said Mr. 
Hoopdriver, completing the confession. Then he 
pulled his right hand from his pocket, and with the 


2l6 


The Wheels of Chance 


nonchalance of one to whom the bitterness of death 
is passed, began to drink his coffee. 

“ It’s a little surprising,” began Jessie, vaguely. 
“Think it over,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “I’m 
sorry from the bottom of my heart.” 

And then breakfast proceeded in silence. Jessie 
ate very little, and seemed lost in thought. Mr. 
Hoopdriver was so overcome by contrition and anx- 
iety that he consumed an extraordinarily large break- 
fast out of pure nervousness, and ate his scrambled 
eggs for the most part with the spoon that belonged 
properly to the marm;;] ide. His eyes were gloomily 
downcast. She glanced at him through her eyelashes. 
Once or twice she struggled with laughter, once or 
twice she seemed to be indignant. 

“ I don’t know what to think,” she said at last. “I 
don’t know what to make of you — brother Chris. I 
thought, do you know ? that you were perfectly 
honest. And somehow — ” 

“Well?” 

“ I think so still.” 

“ Honest — with all those lies ! ” 

“ I wonder.” 

“ I don’t,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “ I’m fair ashamed 
of myself. But anyhow — I’ve stopped deceiving you.’> 
“ I thought said the Young Lady in Grey, “ that 
story of the lion — ” 


The Wheels of Chance 217 

“ Lord ! ” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “ Don’t remind 
me of that.” 

“ I thought, somehow, I felt that the things yoa 
said didn’t ring quite true.” She suddenly broke 
out in laughter, at the expression of his face. “ Of 
course you are honest,” she said. “ How could I ever 
doubt it? As if / had never pretended! I see it 
all now.” 

Abruptly she rose, and extended her hand across 
the breakfast things. He looked at her doubtfully, 
and saw the dancing friendliness in her eyes. He 
scarcely understood at first. He rose, holding the 
marmalade spoon and took her profferred hand with 
abject humility. “ Lord ! ” he broke out, “ if you 
aren’t enough — but there ! ” 

“ I see it all now.” A brilliant inspiration has 
suddenly obscured her humour. She sat down sud- 
denly, and he sat down too. “ You did it,” she said, 
“ because you wanted to help me. And you thought 
I was too Conventional to take help from one I might 
think my social inferior.” 

“ That was partly it,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

“ How you misunderstood me ! ” she said. 

“ You don’t mind ? ” 

“ It was noble of you. But I am sorry,” she said, 
“ you should think me likely to be ashamed of you 
because you follow a decent trade.” 


218 The Whdels of Chance 

I didn’t know at first, you see,” said Mr. Hoop- 
driver. 

And he submitted meekly to a restoration of his 
self-respect. He was as useful a citizen as could be, — 
it was proposed and carried, — and his lying was of the 
noblest. And so the breakfast concluded much more 
happily than his brightest expectation, and they rode 
out of ruddy little Blandford as though no shadow 
of any sort had come between them. 


XXXV 


As they were sitting by the roadside among the pine 
trees half way up a stretch of hill between Wimborne 
and Ringwood, however, Mr. Hoopdriver reopened 
the question of his worldly position. 

“ Ju think,” he began abruptly, removing a medita- 
tive cigarette from his mouth, “ that a draper’s shop- 
man is a decent citizen? ” 

“ Why not?” 

“When he puts people off with what they don’t 
quite want, for instance ? ” 

“ Need he do that ? ” 

“ Salesmanship,” said Hoopdriver. “ Wouldn’t get 
a crib if he didn’t. — It’s no good your arguing. It’s 
not a particularly honest nor a particularly useful trade ; 
it’s not very high up ; there’s no freedom and no leis- 
ure — seven to eight- thirty every day in the week ; 
don’t leave much edge to live on, does it? — real 
workmen laugh at us and educated chaps like bank 
clerks and solicitors’ clerks look down on us. You look 
respectable outside, and inside you are packed in dor- 
m tories like convicts, fed on bread and butter and 


219 


220 The Wheels of Chance 

bullied like slaves. You’re just superior enough to 
feel that you’re not superior. Without capital there’s 
no prospects one draper in a hundred don’t even earn 
enough to marry on and if he does marry, his G. V. 
can just use him to black boots if he likes, and he 
daren’t put his back up. That’s drapery. And you 
tell me to be contented. Would you be contented if 
you was a shop girl ? ” 

She did not answer. She looked at him with dis- 
tress in her brown eyes, and he remained gloomily in 
possession of the field. 

Presently he spoke. “ I’ve been thinking,” he said, 
and stopped. 

She turned her face, resting her cheek on the palm 
of her hand. There was a light in her eyes that made 
the expression of them tender. Mr. Hoopdriver had 
not looked in her face while he had talked. He had 
regarded the grass, and pointed his remarks with red- 
knuckled hands held open and palms upwards. Now 
they hung limply over his knees. 

" Well? ” she said. 

“ I was thinking it this morning,” said Mr. Hoop- 
driver. 

“ Yes?” 

“ Of course it’s silly.” 

“ Well?” 

“ It’s like this. I’m twenty-three, about. I had my 


The Wheels of Chance 


221 


schooling all right to fifteen, say. Well, that leaves 
me eight years behind. — Is it too late? I wasn’t so 
backward. I did algebra, and Latin up to auxiliary 
verbs, and French genders. I got a kind of ground- 
ing.” 

“ And now you mean, should you go on working?” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “That’s it. You 
can’t do much at drapery without capital, you know. 
But if I could get really educated.” 

“ Why not? ” said the Young Lady in Grey. 

Mr. Hoopdriver was surprised to see it in that light. 
“You think?” he said. 

“ Of course. You are a Man. You are free — ” 
She warmed. “ I wish I were you to have the chance 
of that struggle.”. 

“ Am I Man enough ? ” said Mr. Hoopdriver aloud, 
but addressing himself. “There’s that eight years,” 
he said to her. 

“You can make it up. What you call educated 
men. — They’re not going on. You can catch them. 
They are quite satisfied. Playing golf, and thinking of 
clever things to say to women like my stepmother, 
and dining out. You’re in front of them already in 
one thing. They think they know everything. You 
don’t. And they know such little things.” 

“ Lord ! ” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “ How you encour- 
age a fellow ! ” 


222 


The Wheels of Chance 


“ If I could only help you,” she said, and left an 
eloquent hiatus. He became pensive again. 

“ It’s pretty evident you don’t think much of a 
draper,” he said abruptly. 

Another interval. “ Hundreds of men,” she said, 
“ have come from the very lowest ranks of life. 
There was Burns, a ploughman ; and Hugh Miller, 
a stonemason ; and plenty of others. Dodsley was a 
footman — ” 

“ But drapers ! We’re too — sort of shabby genteel 
to rise. Our coats and cuffs might get crumpled — ” 

“Wasn’t there a Clarke who wrote theology? He 
was a draper.” 

“ There was one started a sewing cotton, the only 
one I ever heard tell of.” 

“ Have you ever read * Hearts Insurgent ’ ? ” 

“ Never,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. He did not wait 
for her context, but suddenly broke out with an account 
of his literary requirements. “ The fact is — I’ve read 
precious little. One don’t get much of a chance, 
situated as I am. We have a library at business, and 
I’ve gone through that. Most Besant I’ve read, and a 
lot of Mrs. Braddon’s and Rider Haggard and Marie 
Corelli — and, well — a Ouida or so. They’re good 
stories, of course, and first-class writers, but they didn’t 
seem to have much to do with me. But there’s heaps 
of books one hears talked about, I haven't read.” 


The Wheels of Chance 


223 


“Don’t you read any other books but novels?” 

“ Scarcely ever. One gets tired after business, 
and you can’t get the books. I have been to some 
extension lectures, of course, “ ’Lizabethan Dramatists, 
it was, but it seemed a little high-flown, you know. 
And I went and did wood-carving at the same place. 
But it didn’t seem leading nowhere, and I cut my 
thumb and chucked it.” 

He made a depressing spectacle, with his face 
anxious and his hands limp. “ It makes me sickf 
he said, “ to think how I’ve been fooled with. My 
old schoolmaster ought to have a juiced hiding. 
He’s a thief. He pretended to undertake to make 
a man of me, and he’s stole twenty-three years of 
my life, filled me up with scraps and sweepings. 
Here I am ! I don’t know anything, and I can’t 
do anything, and all the learning time is over.” 

“Is it?” she said; but he did not seem to hear 
her. 

“ My o’ people didn’t know any better, and went 
and paid thirty pounds premium — thirty pounds 
down — to have me made this. The G. V. prom- 
ised to teach me the trade, and he never taught me 
anything but to be a Hand. It’s the way they do 
with draper’s apprentices. If every swindler was 
locked up — well, you’d have nowhere to buy tape 
and cotton. It’s all very well to bring up Burns 


224 


The Wheels of Chance 


and those chaps, but I’m not that make. Yet I’m 
not such muck that I might not have been better 
— with proper teaching. I wonder what the chaps 
who sneer and laugh at such as me would be if 
they’d been fooled about as I’ve been. At twenty- 
three — it’s a long start.” 

He looked up with a wintry smile, a sadder and 
wiser Hoopdriver indeed than him of the glorious 
imaginings. “It’s you done this,” he said. “You’re 
real. And it sets me thinking what I really am, and 
what I might have been. Suppose it was all differ- 
ent — ” 

“ Make it different.” 

“ How?” 

“ Work. Stop playing at life. Face it like a 
man.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Hoopdriver, glancing at her out of 
the corners of his eyes. “ And even then — ” 

“ No ! It’s not much good. I’m beginning too 
late.” 

And there, in blankly thoughtful silence, that con- 
versation ended. 


IN THE NEW FOREST 


XXXVI 

At Ringwood they lunched, and Jessie met with a 
disappointment. There was no letter for her at the 
post office. Opposite the hotel, The Chequered 
Career, was a machine shop with a conspicuously 
second-hand Marlborough Club tandem tricycle dis- 
played in the window, together with the announce- 
ment that bicycles and tricycles were on hire within. 
The establishment was impressed on Mr. Hoop- 
driver’s mind by the proprietor’s action in coming 
across the road and narrowly inspecting their ma- 
chines. His action revived a number of disageeable 
impressions, but, happily, came to nothing. While 
they were still lunching, a tall clergyman, with a 
heated face, entered the room and sat down at the 
table next to theirs. He was in a kind of holiday 
costume ; that is to say, he had a more than usually 
high collar, fastened behind and rather the worse for 
the weather, and his long-tail coat had been replaced 
by a black jacket of quite remarkable brevity. He 
Q 225 


226 


The Wheels of Chance 


had faded brown shoes on his feet, and his trouser 
legs were grey with dust, and he wore a hat of pie- 
bald straw in the place of the customary soft felt. 
He was evidently socially inclined. 

“A most charming day, sir,” he said, in a ringing 
tenor. 

“Charming,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, over a portion 
of pie. 

“You are, I perceive, cycling through this delight- 
ful country,” said the clergyman. 

“Touring,” explained Mr. Hoopdriver. 

“I can imagine that, with a properly oiled ma- 
chine, there can be no easier nor pleasanter way of 
seeing the country.” 

“No,” said Mr. Hoopdriver; “it isn’t half a bad 
way of getting about.” 

“ For a young and newly married couple, a tandem 
bicycle must be, I should imagine, a delightful bond.” 

“Quite so,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, reddening a 
little. 

“ Do you ride a tandem? ” 

“No — we’re separate,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

“ The motion through the air is indisputably of a 
very exhilarating description.” With that decision, 
the clergyman turned to give his orders to the attend- 
ant, in a firm, authoritative voice, for a cup of tea, 
two gelatine lozenges, bread and butter, salad, and 


The Wheels of Chance 


227 


pie to follow. “The gelatine lozenges I require to 
precipitate the tannin in my tea,” he remarked to the 
room at large, and folding his hands, remained for 
some time with his chin thereon, staring fixedly at a 
little picture over Mr. Hoopdriver’s head. 

“I myself am a cyclist,” said the clergyman, 
descending suddenly upon Mr. Hoopdriver. 

“Indeed!” said Mr. PJoopdriver, attacking the 
moustache. “What machine, may I ask?” 

“I have recently become possessed of a tricycle. 
A bicycle is, I regret to say, considered too — how 
shall I put it ? — flippant by my parishioners. So I 
have a tricycle. I have just been hauling it hither.” 

“Hauling!” said Jessie, surprised. 

“With a shoe lace. And partly carrying it on my 
back.” 

The pause was unexpected. Jessie had some 
trouble with a crumb. Mr. Hoopdriver’s face 
passed through several phases of surprise. Then 
he saw the explanation. “Had an accident?” 

“I can hardly call it an accident. The wheels 
suddenly refused to go round. I found myself about 
five miles from here with an absolutely immobile 
machine.” 

“’Ow!” said Mr. Hoopdriver, trying to seem 
intelligent, and Jessie glanced at this insane person. 

“It appears,” said the clergyman, satisfied with 


228 


The Wheels of Chance 


the effect he had created, “that my man carefully 
washed out the bearings with paraffin, and let the 
machine dry without oiling it again. The conse- 
quence was that they became heated to a consider- 
able temperature and jammed. Even at the outset 
the machine ran stiffly as well as noisily, and I, 
being inclined to ascribe this stiffness to my own 
lassitude, merely redoubled my exertions.” 

“’Ot work all round,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

“You could scarcely put it more appropriately. 

It is my rule of life to do whatever I find to do with « 
all my might. I believe, indeed, that the bearings 
became red hot. Finally one of the wheels jammed 
together. A side wheel it was, so that its stoppage 
necessitated an inversion of the entire apparatus, — 
an inversion in which I participated.” 

“Meaning, that you went over ? ” said Mr. Hoop- 
driver, suddenly much amused. 

“Precisely. And not brooking my defeat, I 
suffered repeatedly. You may understand, perhaps, 
a natural impatience. I expostulated — playfully, 
of cousre. Happily the road was not overlooked. 
Finally, the entire apparatus became rigid, and 
I abandoned the unequal contest. For all prac- 
tical purposes the tricycle was no better than a 
heavy chair without castors. It was a case of haul- 
ing or carrying.” 


The Wheels of Chance 229 

The clergyman’s nutriment appeared in the door- 
way. “ Five miles,” said the clergyman. 

He began at once to eat bread and butter vigor- 
ously. “Happily,” he said, “I am an eupeptic, 
energetic sort of person — on principle. I would all 
men were likewise.” 

“It’s the best way,” agreed Mr. Hoopdriver, and 
the conversation gave precedence to bread and butter. 

“Gelatine,” said the clergyman, presently, stirring 
his tea thoughtfully, “precipitates the tannin in one’s 
tea and renders it easy of digestion.” 

“That’s a useful sort of thing to know,” said Mr. 
Hoopdriver. 

“You are altogether welcome,” said the clergyman, 
biting generously at two pieces of bread and butter 
folded together. 

In the afternoon our two wanderers rode on at 
an easy pace towards Stoney Cross. Conversation 
languished, the topic of South Africa being in abey- 
ance. Mr. Hoopdriver was silenced by disagreeable 
thoughts. He had changed the last sovereign at 
Ringwood. The fact had come upon him suddenly. 
Now too late he was reflecting upon his resources. 
There was twenty pounds or more in the post office 
savings bank in Putney, but his book was locked up 
in his box at the Antrobus establishment. Else this 
infatuated man would certainly have surreptitiously 


230 


The Wheels of Chance 


withdrawn the entire sum in order to prolong these 
journeyings even for a few days. As it was, the 
shadow of the end fell across his happiness. Strangely 
enough, in spite of his anxiety and the morning’s 
collapse, he was still in a curious emotional state 
that was certainly not misery. He was forgetting his 
imaginings and posings, forgetting himself altogether 
in his growing appreciation of his companion. The 
most tangible trouble in his mind was the necessity 
of breaking the matter to her. 

A long stretch up hill tired them long before 
Stoney Cross was reached, and they dismounted 
and sat under the shade of a little oak tree. Near 
the crest the road looped on itself, so that, looking 
back, it sloped below them up to the right and then 
came towards them. About them grew a Yich heather 
with stunted oaks on the edge of a deep ditch along 
the roadside, and this road was sandy; below the 
steepness of the hill, however, it was grey and barred 
with shadows, for there the trees clustered thick and 
tall. Mr. Hoopdriver fumbled clumsily with his 
cigarettes. 

“There’s a thing I got to tell you,” he said, try- 
ing to be perfectly calm. 

“ Yes? ” she said. 

“I’d like to jest discuss your plans a bit, y’know.” 

“I’m very unsettled,” said Jessie. 


The Wheels of Chance 


231 


“ You are thinking of writing Books? ” 

“Or doing Journalism, or teaching, or something 
like that,” 

“And keeping yourself independent of your step- 
mother? ” 

“Yes.” 

“How long’d it take now, to get anything of that 
sort to do? ” 

“I don’t know at all. I believe there are a great 
many women journalists and sanitary inspectors, and 
black and white artists. But I suppose it takes 
time. Women, you know, edit most papers nowa- 
days, 'George Egerton says. I ought, I suppose, to 
communicate with a literary agent.” 

“Of course,” said Hoopdriver, “it’s very suitable 
work. Not being heavy like the drapery.” 

“There’s heavy brain labour, you must remember.” 

“That wouldn’t hurt youf said Mr. Hoopdriver, 
turning a compliment. 

“It’s like this,” he said, ending a pause. “It’s a 
juiced nuisance alluding to these matters, but — we 
got very little more money.” 

He perceived that Jessie started, though he did 
not look at her. “ I was counting, of course, on 
your friend’s writing and your being able to take 
some action to-day.” ‘Take some action’ was a 
phrase he had learnt at his last ‘swop.’ 




232 The Wheels of Chance 

“ Money,” said Jessie. “ I didn’t think of money.” 

“Hullo! Here’s' a tandem bicycle,” said Mr. 
Hoopdriver, abruptly, and pointing with his cigar- 
ette. 

She looked, and saw two little figures emerging 
from among the trees at the foot of the slope. The 
riders were bowed sternly over their work and made 
a gallant but unsuccessful attempt to take the rise. 
The machine was evidently too highly geared for hill 
climbing, and presently the rearmost rider rose on 
his saddle and hopped off, leaving his companion to 
any fate he found proper. The foremost rider was a 
man unused to such machines and apparently unde- 
cided how to dismount. He wabbled a few yards 
up the hill with a long tail of machine wabbling be- 
hind him. Finally, he made an attempt to jump off 
as one does off a single bicycle, hit his boot against 
the backbone, and collapsed heavily, falling on his 
shoulder. 

She stood up. “Dear me!” she said. “I hope 
he isn’t hurt.” 

The second rider went to the assistance of the 
fallen man. 

Hoopdriver stood up, too. 

The lank, shaky machine was lifted up and wheeled 
out of the way, and then the fallen rider, being 
assisted, got up slowly and stood rubbing his arm. 


The Wheels of Chance 


233 


No serious injury seemed to be done to the man, 
and the couple presently turned their attention to the 
machine by the roadside. They were not in cycling 
clothes Hoopdriver observed. One wore the gro- 
tesque raiment for which the Cockney discovery of 
the game of golf seems indirectly blameable. Even 
at this distance the flopping flatness of his cap, the 
bright brown leather at the top of his calves, and 
the chequering of his stockings were perceptible. 
The other, the rear rider, was a slender little man 
in grey. 

“Amatoors,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

Jessie stood staring, and a veil of thought dropped 
over her eyes. She no longer regarded the two men 
who were now tinkering at the machine down below 
there. 

“How much have you?” she said. 

He thrust his right hand into his pocket and pro- 
duced six coins, counted them with his left index 
finger, and held them out to her. “Thirteen four 
half,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “Every penny.” 

“I have half a sovereign,” she said. 

“ Our bill wherever we stop — ” The hiatus was 
more eloquent than many words. 

“ I never thought of money coming in to stop us 
like this,” said Jessie. 

“It’s a juiced nuisance.” 


234 


The Wheels of Chance 


Pause. 

“ Here’s some more cyclists coming,” said Mr. 
Hoopdriver. 

The two men were both busy with their bicycle 
still, but now from among the trees emerged the 
massive bulk of a ‘ Marlborough Club’ tandem, rid- 
den by a slender woman in grey and a burly man in 
a Norfolk jacket. Following close upon this came 
a lank black figure in a piebald straw hat, riding a 
tricycle of antiquated pattern with two large wheels 
in front. The man in grey remained bowed over the 
bicycle, with his stomach resting on the saddle, but 
his companion stood up and addressed some remark 
to the tricycle riders. Then it seemed as if he 
pointed up hill to where Mr. Hoopdriver and his 
companion stood side by side. A still odder thing 
followed ; the lady in grey took out her handker- 
chief, appeared to wave it for a moment, and then 
at a hasty motion from her companion the white 
signal vanished. 

“Surely,” said Jessie peering under her hand. 
“It’s never — ” 

The tandem tricycle began to ascend the hill, quar- 
tering elaborately from side to side to ease the ascent. 
It was evident, from his heaving shoulders and de- 
pressed head, that the burly gentleman was exerting 
himself. The clerical person on the tricycle assumed 


The Wheels of Chance 


235 


the shape of a note of interrogation. Then on the 
heels of this procession came a dogcart driven by 
a man in a billycock hat and containing a lady in 
dark green. 

“ Looks like some sort of excursion,” said Hoop- 
driver. 

Jessie did not answer. She was still peering under 
her hand. “ Surely,” she said. 

The clergyman’s efforts were becoming convulsive. 
With a curious jerking motion, the tricycle he rode 
twisted round upon itself, and he partly dismounted 
and partly fell off. He turned his machine up hill 
again immediately and began to wheel it. Then the 
burly gentleman dismounted, and with a courtly at- 
tentiveness assisted the lady in grey to alight. There 
was some little difference of opinion as to assistance, 
she so clearly wished to help push. Finally she gave 
in, and the burly gentleman began impelling the ma- 
chine up hill by his own unaided strength. His 
face made a dot of brilliant colour among the greys 
and greens at the foot of the hill. The tandem bicycle 
was now, it seems, repaired, and this joined the tail 
of the procession, its riders walking behind the dog- 
cart, from which the lady in green and the driver 
had now descended. 

“ Mr. Hoopdriver,” said Jessie. “Those people — 
I’m almost sure — ” 


236 


The Wheels of Chance 


“ Lord ! ” said Mr. Hoopdriver, reading the rest in 
her face, and he turned to pick up his machine at once. 
Then he dropped it and assisted her to mount. 

At the sight of Jessie mounting against the sky 
line the people coming up the hill suddenly became 
excited and ended Jessie’s doubts at once. Two 
handkerchiefs waved, and some one shouted. The 
riders of the tandem bicycle began to run it up hill, 
past the other vehicles. But our young people did 
not wait for further developments of the pursuit. In 
another moment they were out of sight, riding hard 
down a steady incline towards Stoney Cross. 

Before they had dropped among the trees out of 
sight of the hill brow, Jessie looked back and saw 
the tandem rising over the crest, with its rear rider 
just tumbling into the saddle. “ They’re coming,” 
she said, and bent her head over her handles in 
true professional style. 

They whirled down into the valley, over a white 
bridge, and saw ahead of them a number of shaggy 
little ponies frisking in the roadway. Involuntarily 
they slackened. “Shoo !” said Mr. Hoopdriver, and 
the ponies kicked up their heels derisively. At that 
Mr. Hoopdriver lost his temper and charged at 
them, narrowly missed one, and sent them jumping 
the ditch into the bracken under the trees, leaving 
the way clear for Jessie. 


The Wheels of Chance 


23 7 


Then the road rose quietly but persistently ; the 
treadles grew heavy, and Mr. Hoopdriver’s breath 
sounded like a saw. The tandem appeared, making 
frightful exertions, at the foot, while the chase was 
still climbing. Then, thank Heaven ! a crest and a 
stretch of up and down road, whose only disadvantage 
was its pitiless exposure to the afternoon sun. The 
tandem apparently dismounted at the hill, and did 
not appear against the hot blue sky until we were 
already near some trees and a good mile away. 

“ We’re gaining,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, with a little 
Niagara of perspiration dropping from brow to cheek. 
“ That hill—” 

But that was their only gleam of success. They 
were both nearly spent. Hoopdriver, indeed, was 
quite spent, and only a feeling of shame prolonged 
the liquidation of his bankrupt physique. From that 
point the tandem gained upon them steadily. At the 
Rufus Stone, it was scarcely a hundred yards behind. 
Then one desperate spirt, and they found themselves 
upon a steady downhill stretch among thick pine 
woods. Downhill nothing can beat a highly geared 
tandem bicycle. Automatically Mr. Hoopdriver put 
up his feet, and Jessie slackened her pace. In an- 
other moment they heard the swish of the fat pneu- 
matics behind them, and the tandem passed Hoop- 
driver and drew alongside Jessie. Hoopdriver felt a 


238 The Wheels of Chance 

mad impulse to collide with this abominable machine 
as it passed him. His only consolation was to notice 
that its riders, riding violently, were quite as dishev- 
elled as himself and smothered in sandy white dust. 

Abruptly Jessie stopped and dismounted, and the 
tandem riders shot panting past them down hill. 
“ Brake ! ” said Dangle, who was riding behind, and 
stood up on the pedals. For a moment the velocity 
of the thing increased, and then they saw the dust fly 
from the brake, as it came down on the front tire. 
Dangle’s right leg floundered in the air as he came off 
in the road. The tandem wobbled. “ Hold it ! ” 
cried Phipps over his shoulder, going on down hill. 
“ I can’t get off if you don’t hold it.” He put on the 
brake until the machine stopped almost dead, and 
then feeling unstable began to pedal again. Dangle 
shouted after him. “ Put out your foot, man,” said 
Dangle. 

In this way the tandem riders were carried a good 
hundred yards or more beyond their quarry. Then 
Phipps realized his possibilities, slacked up with the 
brake, and let the thing go on sideways, dropping on 
to his right foot. With his left .leg still over the sad- 
dle, and still holding the handles, he looked over his 
shoulder and began addressing uncomplimentary re- 
marks to Dangle. “ You only think of yourself,” said 
Phipps, with a florid face. 


The Wheels of Chance 239 

“ They have forgotten us,” said Jessie, turning her 
machine. 

“ There was a road at the top of the hill — to Lynd- 
hurst,” said Hoopdriver, following her example. 

“ It’s no good. There’s the money. We must 
give it up. But let us go back to that hotel at 
Rufus Stone. I don’t see why we should be led 
captive.” 

So to the consternation of the tandem riders, Jessie 
and her companion mounted and rode quietly back 
up the hill again. As they dismounted at the hotel 
entrance, the tandem overtook them, and immedi- 
ately afterwards the dogcart came into view in pur- 
suit. Dangle jumped off. 

“ Miss Milward, I believe,” said Dangle, panting and 
raising a damp cap from his wet and matted hair. 

“I sayf said Phipps, receding involuntarily. 
“ Don’t go doing it again, Dangle. Help a chap.” 

“ One minute,” said Dangle, and ran after his col- 
league. 

Jessie leant her machine against the wall, and went 
into the hotel entrance. Hoopdriver remained in the 
hotel entrance, limp but defiant. 


AT THE RUFUS STONE 


XXXVIII 

He folded his arms as Dangle and Phipps returned 
towards him. Phipps was abashed by his inability 
to cope with the tandem, which he was now wheel- 
ing, but Dangle was inclined to be quarrelsome. 
“ Miss Milward ? ” he said briefly. 

Mr. Hoopdriver bowed over his folded arms. 

“ Miss Milward within? ” said Dangle. 

“ And not to be disturved,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. 

“You are a scoundrel, sir,” said Mr. Dangle. 

“ Et your service,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “ She 
awaits ’er mother, sir.” 

Mr. Dangle hesitated. “ She will be here immedi- 
ately,” he said. “ Here is her friend, Miss Mergle.” 

Mr. Hoopdriver unfolded his arms slowly, and with 
an air of immense calm, thrust his hands into his 
breeches pockets. Then with one of those fatal 

hesitations of his, it occurred to him that this atti- 
tude was merely vulgarly defiant ; he withdrew both, 
returned one and pulled at the insufficient mous- 
240 


2 4 I 


The Wheels of Chance 

tache with the other. Miss Mergle caught him in 
confusion. “Is this the man?” she said to Dangle, 
and forthwith, “How dare you, sir? How dare you 
face me? That poor girl!” 

“ You will permit me to observe,” began Mr. 
Hoopdriver, with a splendid drawl, seeing himself, 
for the first time in all this business, as a romantic 
villain. 

“ Ugh,” said Miss Mergle, unexpectedly striking 
him about the midriff with her extended palms, and 
sending him staggering backward into the hall of 
the hotel. 

“ Let me pass ! ” said Miss Mergle, in towering 
indignation. “How dare you resist my passage?” 
and so swept by him and into the dining-room, 
wherein Jessie had sought refuge. 

As Mr. Hoopdriver struggled for equilibrium with 
the umbrella-stand, Dangle and Phipps, roused from 
their inertia by Miss Mergle’s activity, came in 
upon her heels, Phipps leading. “ How dare you 
prevent that lady passing?” said Phipps. 

Mr. Hoopdriver looked obstinate, and, to Dangle’s 
sense, dangerous, but he made no answer. A waiter 
in full bloom appeared at the end of the passage, 
guardant. “ It is men of your stamp, sir,” said 
Phipps, “who discredit manhood.” 

Mr. Hoopdriver thrust his hands into his pockets. 


2Af2 % The Wheels of Chance 

“Who the juice are you?” shouted Mr. Hoopdriver, 
fiercely. 

“ Who are you , sir ? ” retorted Phipps. “ Who are 
you? That’s the question. What are you, and what 
are you doing, wandering at large with a young lady 
under age? ” 

“ Don’t speak to him,” said Dangle. 

“ I’m not a-going to tell all my secrets to any one 
who comes at me,” said Hoopdriver. Not Likely.” 
And added fiercely, “And that I tell you, sir.” 

He and Phipps stood, legs apart and both looking 
exceedingly fierce at one another, and Heaven alone 
knows what might not have happened, if the long 
clergyman had not appeared in the doorway, heated 
but deliberate. “ Petticoated anachronism,” said the 
long clergyman in the doorway, apparently still suf- 
fering from the antiquated prejudice that demanded 
a third wheel and a black coat from a clerical 
rider. He looked at Phipps and Hoopdriver for 
a moment, then extending his hand towards the 
latter, he waved it up and down three times, saying, 
“Tchak, tchak, tchak,” very deliberately as he did 
so. Then with a concluding “ Ugh ! ” and a gesture 
of repugnance he passed on into the dining-room 
from which the voice of Miss Mergle was distinctly 
audible remarking that the weather was extremely 
hot even for the time of year. 


The Wheels of Chance 


243 


This expression of extreme disapprobation had a 
very demoralizing effect upon Hoopdriver, a demoral- 
ization that was immediately completed by the advent 
of the massive Widgery. 

“ Is this the man?” said Widgery very grimly, and 
producing a special voice for the occasion from some- 
where deep in his neck. 

“ Don’t hurt him ! ” said Mrs. Milward, with clasped 
hands. “ However much wrong he has done her — 
No violence ! ” 

“ ’ Ow many more of you ? ” said Hoopdriver, at 
bay before the umbrella stand. 

“ Where is she? What has he done with her?” 
said Mrs. Milward. 

I’m not going to stand here and be insulted by a 
lot of strangers,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “ So you 
needn’t think it.” 

“ Please don’t worry, Mr. Hoopdriver,” said 
Jessie, suddenly appearing in the door of the din- 
ing-room. “ I’m here, mother.” Her face was 
white. 

Mrs. Milward said something about her child, and 
made an emotional charge at Jessie. The embrace 
vanished into the dining-room. Widgery moved as if 
to follow, and hesitated. “ You’d better make your- 
self scarce,” he said to Mr. Hoopdriver. 

“ I shan’t do anything of the kind,” said Mr. Hoop- 


244 


The Wheels of Chance 


driver, with a catching of the breath. “ I’m here 
defending that young lady.” 

“You’ve done her enough mischief, I should think,” 
said Widgery, suddenly walking towards the dining- 
room, and closing the door behind him, leaving 
Dangle and Phipps with Hoopdriver. 

“ Clear ! ” said Phipps, threateningly. 

“ I shall go and sit out in the garden,” said Mr. 
Hoopdriver, with dignity. “ There I shall remain.” 

“ Don’t make a row with him,” said Dangle. 


XXXIX 


So here is the world with us again, and our senti- 
mental excursion is over. In the front of the Rufus 
Stone Hotel conceive a remarkable collection of 
wheeled instruments, watched over by Dangle and 
Phipps in grave and stately attitudes, and by the 
driver of a stylish dogcart from Ringwocrd. In the 
garden behind, in an attitude of nervous prostration, 
Mr. Hoopdriver was seated on a rustic seat. Through 
the open window of a private sitting-room came a 
murmur of voices, as of men and women in confer- 
ence. Occasionally something that might have been 
a girlish sob. 

“I fail to see what status Widgery has,” says 
Dangle, “thrusting himself in theie.” 

“He takes too much upon himself,” said Phipps. 

“I’ve been noticing little things, yesterday and 
to-day,” said Dangle, and stopped. 

“ They went to the cathedral together in the after- 
noon.” 

“Financially it would be a good thing for her, of 
course,” said Dangle, with a gloomy magnanimity. 

245 


246 


The Wheels of Chance 


He felt drawn to Phipps now by the common trouble, 
in spite of the man’s chequered legs. “Financially 
it wouldn’t be half bad.” 

“He’s so dull and heavy,” said Phipps. 

Meanwhile within, the clergyman had, by prompti- 
tude and dexterity, taken the chair and was opening 
the case against the unfortunate Jessie. I regret to 
have to say that my heroine had been appalled by 
the visible array of public opinion against her excur- 
sion, to the pitch of tears. She was sitting with 
flushed cheeks and swimming eyes at the end of the 
table opposite to the clergyman. She held her hand- 
kerchief crumpled up in her extended hand. Mrs. 
Milward sat as near to her as possible, and occasion- 
ally made little dabs with her hand at Jessie’s hand, 
to indicate forgiveness. These advances were not 
reciprocated, which touched Widgery very much. 
The lady in green, Miss Mergle (B. A.) sat on the 
opposite side near the clergyman. She was the 
strong-minded schoolmistress to whom Jessie had 
written, and who had immediately precipitated the 
pursuit upon her. She had picked up the clergyman 
in Ringwood, and had told him everything forthwith, 
having met him once a British Association meet- 
ing. He had immediately constituted himself admin- 
istrator of the entire business. Widgery, having 
been foiled in an attempt to conduct the proceed- 


The Wheels of Chance 


247 


ings, stood with his legs wide apart in front of the 
fireplace ornament, and looked profound and sympa- 
thetic. Jessie’s account of her adventures was a 
chary one and given amidst frequent interruptions. 
She surprised herself by skilfully omitting any allu- 
sion to the Bechamel episode. She completely 
exonerated Hoopdriver from the charge of being 
more than an accessory to her escapade. But public 
feeling was heavy against Hoopdriver. Her narra- 
tive was inaccurate and sketchy, but happily the others 
were too anxious to pass opinions to pin her down 
to particulars. At last they had all the facts they 
would permit. 

“My dear young lady,” said the clergyman, “I 
can only ascribe this extravagant and regrettable 
expedition of yours to the wildest misconceptions of 
your place in the world and of your duties and 
responsibilities. Even now, it seems to me your 
present emotion is due not so much to a real and 
sincere penitence for your disobedience and folly as 
to a positive annnoyance at our most fortunate inter- 
ference — ” 

“Not that,” said Mrs. Milward, in a low tone. 
“Not that.” 

“ But why did she go off like this? ” said Widgery. 
“That’s what / want to know.” 

Jessie made an attempt to speak, but Mrs. Milward 


248 


The Wheels of Chance 


said Hush ! and the ringing tenor of the clergyman 
rode triumphantly over the meeting. “I cannot 
understand this spirit of unrest that has seized upon 
the more intelligent portion of the feminine com- 
munity. You had a pleasant home, a most refined 
and intelligent lady in the position of your mother, 
to cherish and protect you — ” 

“If I had a mother,” gulped Jessie, succumbing 
to the obvious snare of self-pity, and sobbing. 

“To cherish, protect, and advise you. And you 
must needs go out of it all alone into a strange world 
of unknown dangers — ” 

“I wanted to learn,” said Jessie. 

“You wanted to learn. May you never have any- 
thing to ^^learn.” 

“ Ah ! ” from Mrs. Milward, very sadly. 

“It isn’t fair for all of you to argue at me at 
once,” submitted Jessie, irrelevantly. 

“A world full of unknown dangers,” resumed the 
clergyman. “Your proper place was surely the 
natural surroundings that are part of you. You have 
been unduly influenced, it is only too apparent, by 
a class of literature which, with all due respect to 
a distinguished authoress that shall be nameless, I 
must call the New Woman Literature. In that 
deleterious ingredient of our book boxes — ” 

“I don’t altogether agree with you there,” said 


The Wheels of Chance 249 

Miss Mergle, throwing her head back and regarding 
him firmly through her spectacles, and Mr. Widgery 
coughed. 

“What has all this to do with me?” asked Jessie, 
availing herself of the interruption. 

“The point is,” said Mrs. Milward, on her defence, 
“ that in my books — ” 

“All I want to do,” said Jessie, “is to go about 
freely by myself. Gjrls do so in America. Why 
not here? ” 

“Social conditions are entirely different in 
America,” said Miss Mergle. “Here we respect 
Class Distinctions.” 

“It’s very unforutnate. What I want to know is, 
why I cannot go away for a holiday if I want to.” 

“With a strange young man, socially your in- 
ferior,” said Widgery, and made her flush by his 
tone. 

“Why not?” she said. “With anybody.” 

“They don’t do that, even in America,” said Miss 
Mergle. 

. “My dear young lady,” said the clergyman, “the 
most elementary principles of dceorum — A day 
will come when you will better understand how 
entirely subservient your ideas are to the very funda- 
mentals of our present civilisation, when you will 
better understand the harrowing anxiety you have 


250 


The Wheels of Chance 


given Mrs. Milward by this inexplicable flight of 
yours. We can only put things down at present, in 
charity to your ignorance — ” 

“ You have to consider the general body of opinion, 
too,” said Widgery. 

“ Precisely, ” said Miss Melgre. “ There is no such 
thing as conduct in the absolute.” 

“If once this most unfortunate business gets 
about,” said the clergyman, “it will do you infinite 
harm.” 

“But I've done nothing wrong. Why should I be 
responsible for other people’s — ” 

“The world has no charity,” said Mrs. Milward. 
“For a girl,” said Jessie. “No.” 

“Now do let us stop arguing, my dear young lady, 
and let us listen to reason. Never mind how or why, 
this conduct of yours will do you infinite harm, if 
once it is generally known. And not only that, it 
will cause infiinte pain to those who care for you. 
But if you will return at once to your home, causing 
it to be understood that you have been with friends 
for these last few days — ” 

“Tell lies,” said Jessie. 

“Certainly not. Most certainly not. But I 
understand that is how your absence is understood 
at present, and there is no reason — ” 

Jessie’s grip tightened on her handkerchief. “I 


The Wheels of Chance 


251 


won’t go back,” she said, “to have it as I did 
before. I want a room of my own, what books I 
need to read, Teaching — ” % 

“Anything,” said Mrs. Milward; “anything in 
reason.” 

“But will you keep your promise? ” said Jessie. 
“Surely you won’t dictate to your mother!” said 
Widgery. 

“My stepmother! I don’t want to dictate. I 
want definite promises now.” 

“This is most unreasonable,” said the clergyman. 
“Very well,” said Jessie, swallowing a sob but 
with unusual resolution. “Then I won’t go back. 
My life is being frittered away — ” 
u Let her have her way,” said Widgery. 

“A room then. All your Men. I’m not to come 
down and talk away half my days — ” 

“My dear child, if only to save you,” said Mrs. 
Milward. 

“If you don’t keep your promise — ” 

“Then I take it the matter is practically con- 
cluded,” said the clergyman. “And that you very 
properly submit to return to your proper home. 
And now, if I may offer a suggestion, it is that we 
take tea. Freed of its tannin, nothing, I think, is 
more refreshing and stimulating.” 

“There’s a train from Lyndhurst at thirteen 


252 


The Wheels of Chance 


minutes to six,” said Widgery, unfolding a time 
table. “That gives us about half an hour or 
three-quarters here — if a conveyance is obtainable, 
that is.” 

“A gelatine lozenge dropped into the tea cup 
precipitates the tannin in the form of tannate of 
gelatine,” said the clergyman to Miss Mergle, in a 
confidential bray. 

Jessie stood up, and saw through the window a 
depressed head and shoulders over the top of the 
back of a garden seat. She moved towards the door. 
“While you have tea, mother,” she said, “I must 
tell Mr. Hoopdriver of our arrangements.” 

“ Don’t you think I — ” began the clergyman. 

“No,” said Jessie, very rudely; “I don’t.” 

“But, Jessie, haven’t you already — ” 

“You are already breaking the capitulation,” said 
Jessie. 

“Will you want the whole half hour?” said Wid- 
gery, at the bell. 

“Every minute,” said Jessie, in the doorway. 
“He’s behaved very nobly to me.” 

“There’s tea,” said Widgery. 

“ I’ve had tea.” 

“He may not have behaved badly,” said the 
clergyman. “But he’s certainly an astonishingly 
weak person to let a wrong-headed young girl — ” 


The Wheels of Chance 253 

Jessie closed the door into the garden. 

“Come away from here,” she said to Hoopdriver, 
as he rose to meet her. “I’m going home with 
them. We have to say good-bye.” 


XL 


At first Jessie Milward and Mr. Hoopdriver walked 
away from the hotel in silence. He heard a catch- 
ing in her breath and glanced at her and saw her lips 
pressed tight and a tear on her cheek. Her face was 
hot and bright. She was looking straight before her. 
He could think of nothing to say, and thrust his 
hands in his pockets and looked away from her 
intentionally. After a while she began to talk. 
They dealt disjointedly with scenery first, and then 
with the means of self-education. She took his 
address at Antrobus’s and promised to send him 
some books. But even with that it was spiritless, 
aching talk, Hoopdriver felt, for the fighting mood 
was over. She seemed, to him, preoccupied with 
the memories of her late battle, and that appearance 
hurt him. 

They went into a hollow and up a gentle wooded 
slope, and came at last to a high and open space 
overlooking a wide expanse of country. There, by 
a common impulse, they stopped. She looked at 
her watch — a little ostentatiously. They stared at 
254 


The Wheels of Chance 


255 


the billows of forest rolling away beneath them, crest 
beyond crest, of leafy trees, fading at last into blue. 

“And so,” she said, presently, breaking a silence, 
“it comes to good-bye.” 

For half a minute he did not answer. Then he 
gathered his resolution. “There is one thing I must 
say.” 

“Well?” she said, surprised and abruptly forget- 
ting the recent argument. 

“ I ask no return. But — ” 

Then he stopped. “I won’t say it. It’s no good. 
It would be rot from me — now. 1 wasn’t going to 
say anything. Good-bye.” 

She looked at him with a startled expression in 
her eyes. “No,” she said. “But don’t forget you 
are going to work. Remember, brother Chris, you 
are my friend. You will work. You are not a very 
strong man, you know, now — you will forgive me 
— • nor do you know all you should. But what will 
you be in six years’ time?” 

He stared hard in front of him still, and the lines 
about his weak mouth seemed to stengthen. He 
knew she understood what he could not say. 

“I’ll work,” he said, concisely. 

They stood side by side for a moment. Then he 
said, with a motion of his head, “I won’t come back 
to them . Do you mind? Going back alone? ” 


256 


The Wheels of Chance 


She took ten seconds to think. “No,” she said, 
and held out her hand, biting her nether lip. 
“ Good-bye ,” she whispered. 

He turned, with a white face, looked into her 
eyes, took her hand limply, and then with a sudden 
impulse, lifted it to his lips. She would have 
snatched it away, but his grip tightened to her 
movement. She felt the touch of his lips, and then 
he had dropped her fingers and turned from her and 
was striding down the slope. A dozen paces away 
his foot turned in the lip of a rabbit hole, and he 
stumbled forward and almost fell. He recovered his 
balance and went on, not looking back. He never 
once looked back. She stared at his receding figure 
until it was small and far below her, and then, the 
tears running over her eyelids now, turned slowly, 
and walked with her hands gripped hard together 
behind her, towards Stoney Cross again. 

“I did not know,” she whispered to herself. “I 
did not understand. Even now — No, I do not 
know.” 


THE ENVOY 


XLI 

So the story ends, dear Readers. Mr. Hoopdriver, 
sprawling down there among the bracken, must 
sprawl without our prying, I think, or listening to 
what chances to his breathing. And of what came 
of it all, of the six years and afterwards, this is no 
place to tell. In truth, there is no telling it, for the 
years have still to run. But if you see how a mere 
counter-jumper, a cad on castors, and a fool to boot, 
may come to feel the little insufficiencies of life, and 
if he has to any extent won your sympathies, my end 
is attained. (If it is not attained, may Heaven for- 
give us both!) Nor will we follow this adventurous 
young lady of ours back to her home at Surbiton, to 
her new struggle against Widgery and Mrs. Milward 
combined. For, as she will presently hear, that 
devoted man has got his reward. For her, also, 
your sympathies are invited. 

The rest of this great holiday, too -- five days there 
are left of it — is beyond the limits of our design. 
2 57 


s 


258 


The Wheels of Chance 


You see fitfully a slender figure in a dusty brown suit 
and heather mixture stockings, and brown shoes not 
intended to be cycled in, flitting Londonward 
through Hampshire and Berkshire and Surrey, going 
economically — for excellent reasons. He is a nar- 
row-chested person, with a nose hot and tanned at 
the bridge with unwonted exposure, and brown, red- 
knuckled fists. A musing expression sits upon the 
face of this rider, you observe. Sometimes he 
whistles noiselessly to himself, sometimes he speaks 
aloud, “a juiced good try, anyhow!” you hear; and 
sometimes, and that too often for my liking, he 
looks irritable and hopeless. “I know,” he says, 
“I know. It isn’t in me. You ain’t man enough, 
Hoopdriver. Look at yer silly hands ! ” and a gust 
of passion comes upon him and he rides furiously 
for a space. 

Sometimes again his face softens. “Anyhow, if 
I’m not to see her — she’s going to lend me books,” 
he thinks, and gets such comfort as he can. Once 
or twice triumphant memories of the earlier inci- 
dents nerve his face for awhile. “ I put the ky-bosh 
on his little game,” he remarks. “I did that, ” and 
one might even call him happy in these phases. 
And, by-the-bye, the machine, you notice, has been 
enamel painted grey and carries a sonorous gong. 

This figure passes through Basingstoke and Bag- 


The Wheels of Chance 


259 


shot, Staines, Hampton, and Richmond. At last, 
in Putney High Street, glowing with the warmth of 
an August sunset and with all the ’prentice boys busy 
shutting up shop, and the work girls going home, 
and the shop folks peeping abroad, and the white 
’buses full of late clerks and city folk rumbling home 
to their dinners, we part from him. He is back. 
To-morrow, the early rising, the dusting, and 
drudgery, begin again — but with a difference, with 
wonderful memories and still more wonderful desires 
and ambitions replacing those discrepant dreams. 

He turns out of the High Street at the corner, 
dismounts with a sigh, and pushes his machine 
through the gates of the Antrobus stable yard, as the 
apprentice with the high collar holds them open. 
There are words of greeting. “South Coast,” you 
hear; and “splendid weather — splendid.” “Yes 
— swapped him off for a couple of sovs. It’s a 
juiced good machine.” 

The gate closes upon him with a slam, and he 
vanishes from our ken. 


THE END 




























































































































































































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